


Ancient flavours

by MechanicalHeart



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-09-06 07:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalHeart/pseuds/MechanicalHeart
Summary: Aziraphale meets Crowley, throughout the centuries.They collaborate. They bond. They grow closer together. Until there is no stepping away from it anymore.





	1. Heian Court, 1012

**Author's Note:**

> Dear fam,
> 
> First of all, I'd like you all to know that I have not read the book (yet). So I may have made some mistakes in the lore without realising it. Hope it doesn't take you out of it.  
I have based the chapters around food. This was a lot of fun to write and also a lot of fun to research! I'm sure not everything is historically or locally authentic but I made an effort to get the culinary background right.  
All of it is pre-endtimes.
> 
> *This first chapter is shorter than the rest.  
I will upload the other five in the coming days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear fam,  
First of all, I'd like you all to know that I have not read the book (yet). So I may have made some mistakes in the lore without realising it. Hope it doesn't take you out of it.  
I have based the chapters around food. This was a lot of fun to write and also a lot of fun to research! I'm sure not everything is historically or locally authentic but I made an effort to get the culinary background right.  
All of it is pre-endtimes.  
*This first chapter is shorter than the rest.  
I will upload the other five in the coming days.

鰻丼・ざるそば・漬物  
団茶

_Steamed eel with rice_  
_ Cold soba noodles_  
_ Pickled ginger and cucumber_  
_ Dancha tea_

Slurping is a delicate art form.  
The trick is to avoid getting drops of dark soy sauce on one's clothes. In order to succeed, one needs to pay close attention to posture, vicinity of the noodles to the sauce bowl, and the grip of the chopsticks. It had taken Aziraphale about three months, but he felt like he had it down. For the most part.

It was a hot day in early August. He sat cross-legged on a wooden floor, hidden behind a sliding door. The shade of the gigantic cedar pine next to him was a lifesaver as he watched the courtiers going about their business. They were agitated - preparations for the Obon festivities had to be made and some supplies hadn't arrived yet. At least, that is what Aziraphale could gather from what they were talking about. His Japanese wasn't very good, but he had learned food-related vocabulary very quickly, and since the court guards and ladies-in-waiting were constantly discussing the 'mochi' and 'yuzu' he had realised that there was not enough rice in the palace kitchens to make rice cakes, and not enough indigenous Japanese citrus fruit. Not only were they to be offered to the gods in a few days, they would also be served to the nobility and their guests.  
"Not to worry, dear friends," he mumbled over his cool soba. "Cargo is on its way." He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting his mind wander accompanied by the loud songs of cicadas. "Nobuhiko is moving along nicely, but he was stuck in a ditch a few days ago and that is why is his delayed. But Naruyuki and Tomohiro are doing their utmost to fix it. Looks like they will be here this evening, when the moon is up and the sky is the lightest of blue." He smiled, glad that the problems at the court would be resolved soon. He was also glad that there was still some pickled cucumber left on the smallest plate of his tray. Just as he was about to pick them up from the exquisitely decorated piece of earthenware, he was startled by a voice. And it did not speak in the subtle consonants of feudal Japanese.  
"Oi."  
Aziraphale could smell it before he saw it. A deep, full scent of slow burning coal mixed with a hint of decomposing organic matter on the bottom of a swamp. This could only mean one thing: a demon had found him.  
He jumped up from his seated position and turned around, his hand still grasping for a sword that was not there and had not been there for ages. His tsukemono fell back on their tiny little plate, next to his chopsticks.  
"Didn't expect to see you here, in this old God-forsaken country."  
"Crawly..?"  
"No other."  
He was instantly recognisable, but it was difficult to come to terms with him being here, and Aziraphale could only squint his eyes and blink.  
"My apologies. I did not expect to see you here, either."  
"Why not?" Crawly looked around, spreading his arms. "This is a hotbed of occultism. My lot should all come over. We'd have a legendary party. You, on the other hand..."  
His expression was best described as 'disgusted, but morbidly curious' as he walked closer. "Your presence makes no sense. Those people over there have never heard about you or that good book of yours."  
"Yes, well..." Aziraphale weighed his options in his head. He did not want to tell Crawly any more than necessary, but he did want to know why he had come here. "I will tell you, but you have to tell me, first."  
Crawly grinned. "You wouldn't break that promise. You couldn’t."  
Aziraphale shook his head. "No, I would not."  
"Alright. I'll just inform you right away: I'm not going to lie. There's no reason for it. I'm here for research purposes."  
"What a coincidence. So am I." He rearranged his obi and held his head up high. “I am pretending to be a guest at an envoy. This allows me to study in the midst of the court.”  
"Really?" Crawly cast a look at Aziraphale's lunch. "Not much to study here for you, as far as I am aware."  
"Us angels are not here often enough, I will admit. I believe that this disinterest happens to be one of the causes that we do not have much to work with. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy, so to speak. I am here mostly of my own volition."  
"Hm."  
"What you were just telling me about the occultist rituals here, well, that sounds interesting. The court is just gearing up for a large feast. Might be nice to stay and witness it."  
"Nah, I've seen them do the Obon a few years ago, it's all been documented, that's fine. I'll be in the woods for a bit. Tons of kami there putting on a big show. I've been invited, actually, to watch the fires on the mountainside."  
"And will you watch the spectacle from the trees? Like a bird?" Aziraphale chuckled at the idea.  
Crawly shrugged. "More like a bat, likely. What of it?"  
"Nothing, nothing."  
"Not like I'm judging you, is it?"  
"No, of course." Aziraphale smiled, feeling slightly nervous. He had had many interactions with demons through the years and many had been confrontational, unpredictable. You never knew what one of them might do, or when they might snap and attack. He wasn’t worried that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He just didn’t feel like fighting, ever. The thought of the damage it would do to his clothes alone was enough for him to decide to take the pacifist route, whenever possible.  
"So, I'll be off. I'll leave you to it, then," Crawly gestured to what was left of Aziraphale's lunch.  
"Thank you," he replied politely, involuntarily making a bow.  
Crawly seemed amused by that. "The yukata looks good on you, by the way. You know, while we're judging one another."  
"Oh! I, um... thank you."  
"The slurping game could use some practice," was the last thing he heard.  
"Hm..?" a puzzled Aziraphale quickly checked the folds of his yukata for any soy sauce stains. He gasped in disbelief as he found one on his obi, rudely disrupting the tasteful purple dye. Then another, on his sleeve. And another on his other sleeve...  
"You... trickster," he grumbled and looked up, but the demon had already disappeared beneath the trees and merged with their deep shadows. A faint sound was audible; it might have been laughter, but it could also have been hiccups. Aziraphale sighed and shook his head as the stains turned pale and vanished from his gown. It was best to shrug one's shoulders at demonic antics. Aziraphale had always been taught to push back, but he had learned over the years that the most effective tactic was simply not giving them any attention. There was nothing demons hated more than being ignored. It also meant that he could concentrate on his meal again.  
"And this meal," he mumbled quietly to himself, "is far more important."  
God, the steamed eel was _so_ delicious.

That night, after eleven, Crawly's midriff stopped convulsing at last.  
"Told you hanging upside-down would work," one of the kami he shared a tree with winked at him.  
"Hmpf," Crawly grumbled, folding his arms over his chest defensively. It was a bad habit to show others your moments of weakness. Even if they were exclusively physical and posed only a minor discomfort. The kami were very hospitable, but they were not to be trusted any more than necessary. Besides, the kami next to him was patron to a small set of rocks - what the hell did he know about hiccups?  
Breathing in slowly, calming his lungs, he turned his eyes to the mountains. Wood had already been gathered, and was ready to be lit, a couple of miles from where they were hanging, waiting, silently. The kami wouldn't dream of disturbing this celebration. Whether they were more aligned with Crawly's side of things, or with that dainty little angel on the palace grounds, these fires were important for each and every one of them. They signified the middle of summer and a chance to pay respects to their elders and predecessors. Plus, they were bloody spectacular. Slowly, the excited murmurs and whispers around him died out. There were no sounds; no bird, fox, tanuki, or cicada would dare open its mouth or rub its wings now.  
When the first flames appeared the whole forest seemed to gasp. The fire grew and grew, moved at a high speed over the dry earth, until the shape of a character stood out. "大". It was uncomplicated, but strikingly beautiful.  
"Pretty neat," Crawly grinned. A benevolent river deity hanging on the branch above him scoffed at his words.  
"What, not profound enough for you?"  
He didn't let the good-hearted souls surrounding him ruin the fun. The grin stayed on his face. His bare teeth reflected the red glow of the fires.  
He did have to wonder if the angel at the court was listening to the same temple bell.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Heian court was located in (what is now) Kyoto. In the mountains around Kyoto there are still summer fires being lit today. I am not sure how far back this tradition goes. It might be older than a thousand years.  
Writing this I realised that this is why the 'fire' attack in Pokémon is shaped like 大. I feel like an idiot because I should have known this but I only connected the dots now!


	2. Auvergne, 1784

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make a time jump to the eighteenth century. The French countryside. Spring. An angel is on the hunt for cream puffs while a small farm is being spied on by nefarious forces.

_ Profiteroles_  
  
_ Crêpes à miel_  
  
_ Croustade_  
  
_ Du lait _

It was early, very early in the morning, but not too early for Madame de La Croix's chickens. At the first sign of sunlight, the smallest chicken would start cackling. The roosters in the adjacent chicken coop followed suit, but the tiny chicken (named 'Coquette' by Madame de La Croix's daughter Claudette) would always take the lead, even though she was a hen. Today was different.  
Claudette opened her eyes to her familiar room, bathing in golden rays. For a moment, she was perfectly still. It had been some time since she had slept this well. But after a minute or two, her state of calm switched to alarm. Judging by the sun, it was late. Late for a farm in 1784 to start the day. Why hadn't little Coquette woken her up? The absence of Coquette's panicky, funny cackles she adored so much was almost painful to her ears. She jumped out of her bed, the wooden floor creaking gently as she walked up to the window. She sighed of relief when she noticed no signs of violence around the chicken coops. No chicken feathers scattered everywhere, no broken fencing. No foxes had been here through the night, and no thieves had tried to steal their livelihood. Nevertheless, she had to check outside right away. She changed into her dress as quickly as she could.  
"This is odd," she mumbled, "this is odd."  
When she ran to the backyard, she found her mother already there, also staring at the chicken coops.  
"They're quiet," she commented.  
"Yes," Claudette replied, even though both knew that the other had noticed already.  
Mme. de la Croix stepped forward, opening the door Mr. de la Croix had installed back when he had built the coop. Claudette followed her, hastily putting up her hair. She may have been on her family's property, but you never knew when the priest of their little town might pass the house on his rounds, and they were sure to hear of the declining morals and indecency in the village in church on Sunday if she didn't pay attention to her chestnut locks. Curious, she peeked inside the coop from behind her mother's back. The chickens were on the floor and awake. When they noticed the women they greeted them with soft coos.  
"What's wrong, ladies?" Mme. de la Croix asked. "Don't you want to go outside?"  
The chickens tried to see outside, but none of them stepped outside their hen house. Claudette stared at them, puzzled, and turned around. She had turned her eyes to the woods just quickly enough to notice a dark figure, standing underneath the trees. It looked like a man, but he was hunched over in some way, it seemed, because the figure didn't make sense to Claudette. Was he even standing? Or was he hanging in the tree next to him? Was it even a man?  
"Mother," she whispered, as loudly as she dared. "Mother. There is someone in the forest."  
Her mom turned around and looked in the direction Claudette was staring at. At that exact moment, the figure was gone.  
"It's not there anymore," Claudette said, shaking her head in disbelief.  
"Hm," her mother frowned. "I didn't see a thing. But whatever it was, it can't be good if the chickens hide from it. Best to stay on the lookout here, today."  
"But mother, you have to be in town today," Claudette reminded her. There were some important things her mother still needed to do for her grandpa's funeral. He had been buried last week. She had heard her parents discuss the documents having to do with the church service and the old man's will. Some documents needed to be signed and delivered, and only her parents were capable of doing so. Since her father was out of town selling cattle and would not be back until next month, at latest, her mother would have to visit the mayor's office and the church in his place.  
"Ah." Madame de la Croix's face became even more clouded. "You are right. I have errands. That only leaves you."  
"I can stay, no problem."  
"I know you can, but I don't like it."  
Claudette did not say anything to address her mother's concerns. She didn't like it, either. The farm was a bit removed from other houses in the area, mostly because it was on the other side of a small forest and the river that ran through it. In order to get to the de la Croix home from the village, you needed to walk through the forest and cross a wooden bridge. The bridge needed repairs very often and usually, Claudette's father was the one to carry his saw and hammer over and do it, because most town folk never crossed it. This solitude brought great peace to Claudette's home, but it also meant that nobody would notice if something terrible happened. Not until the villagers would start to question why her mother wasn't at the market that week. And a girl on her own was vulnerable. Far more vulnerable than her father and even her mother would be, as she was a married woman and most people would at least respect that status. Claudette had nothing.  
The chickens broke the silence when they unexpectedly ran into their coop, happily rummaging around as if nothing was different. Perhaps they were a bit more enthusiastic, even. Some spread their wings and started cackling. Claudette and her mother couldn't help but smile.  
"Looks like they are up and about again."  
Claudette knelt down in their midst. "Good morning."

After she had gathered the eggs from the hen house, she opened the chicken coop and let the brood out into the fields behind the farmhouse. The sky was bright, but white sheep clouds were slowly rolling in from the west. Rain would start falling after noon, perhaps around three. A chilly gust of wind came from the fields and Claudette shivered. It made her think of the dark figure again and she turned around to the forest as if she were stung by a bee. There was nothing there. _Nothing that you can see_, a voice in her head whispered, and she shivered again. The thought of a man (or something that only looked vaguely like a man) watching her from beneath the trees was too much for her. She ran back inside the house to help her mother prepare breakfast and lunch.

In the village, the inn was in disarray. The chef was pacing around in her kitchen while the two helps looked each other in the eyes, unsure of what they had to do.  
"But mademoiselle, please, just tell us what he ordered," one of them tried again.  
"We cannot do much if we don't know what the gentleman wants," the other affirmed.  
"He ordered," the chef said, turning to face the two helps, "everything. He ordered everything. Every pastry we have."  
"Are you sure it wasn't a misunderstanding of some sorts?"  
"I wish it were a misunderstanding. No, this one is serious. And right now, we have not much to offer... he looks as though he came from a large city, so who knows what he is used to? What kind of service, which kinds of patisseries?"  
"Let's start from what we do have," the more practically inclined help suggested. "We have profiteroles cooling down."  
"Yes, we can give him one or two, at the very least."  
"Yes, we could do that." The chef tried to cool her nerves and stood still. "We could make some custard pie?"  
"We would have to use all our custard right away if we do."  
"Do it."  
"Got it." One of the boys got to work on the custard.  
"Alright. I believe I was working on tonight’s crêpes before he walked in... ah, yes. I will finish that and serve him some slices with honey. Do we still have honey?"  
The other boy checked the shelves. "Not a lot."  
"Fetch me another pot. And do it quickly."  
The help, Oscar, needed no further encouragement. He ran out the back door to the grocer's, who sold honey. Despite his dedication to his tasks - he was very fond of mademoiselle Bonheur, the chef - he glanced over at the small terrace in front of the inn to see the customer who had thrown their morning into chaos. The inn's hostess, Madame Lenoir, put a large glass of fresh milk on his table and apologised for the tardiness of her kitchen.  
"Do not stress yourself, please," he caught the gentleman say to her. "I did not discuss a table, so the fault is entirely my own. I do not mind sitting here, on your lovely town square. Look, I have brought some books, and I will be perfectly fine."  
Oscar was thrown off by his appearance more than his manner of speech. He sounded French, but the intonation was not the one Oscar had listened to all his life. Maybe he really was from a large city. Maybe he had come from Paris. A visitor from Paris was highly unusual, but not unthinkable. But did Parisians really dress themselves like this man these days? His attire looked expensive and the accessories and details made Oscar's head spin. Was he getting married today, or something? He shook his head at the obscene display of riches in this, the vast poor, starving part of his country, on his way to the grocery store.

The identity Aziraphale had come up with for himself was that of an English student who had lived in Paris for more than five years, to finish his degree in medicine and start a career there. This would explain the expensive fabrics he liked to wear, and the books he carried with him, but it would also explain his less-than-perfect pronunciation and grammar of the language and his love for patisserie. It did not explain why he was here, in the Provence, deep in the mainland where at least two-thirds of the population spent their days working, paying taxes and being hungry. They did not know it, but Aziraphale did: the food was better here. The recipes had none of the overblown complexities they had in Paris. He liked the food in Paris, a lot, of course he did, but he had grown to admire the simple tastes only fresh ingredients from healthy soil could give. He had travelled towards the south, having left his quarters in Paris at the first signs of spring, and had visited many villages. In name, he was doing fieldwork for Heaven, investigating the minds and hearts of the common people, oppressed and frustrated as they were, and the reach of the new ideas of Enlightenment. In practice, he was on a food tour. After all, there was no need to exclude all pleasure from serious work, was there?  
And really, he would have been happy with the most common type of bread the good people here could serve him, but hearing that they had pastries was a magic spell to him. It would be impossible to leave now.  
"Forgive me my gluttony," he said quietly, looking up to the sky, and took a sip of the milk. It was full, creamy, and perfect. He opened the book on political reform he had been struggling to finish the past few days and forced himself to concentrate. The patisseries would be here soon. The thought was enough to get him through the heavy lecture. Before he knew it, a kitchen help served him a small plate with three cream puffs on it. The profiteroles. The poor lad must have worked very hard, because his forehead was visibly sweaty, but it wasn’t that warm yet.  
“Monsieur,” he bowed, and was on his way back again, only to bring out crêpes, still hot, with a piece of butter melting on top, and, to Aziraphales surprise, a small custard pie. Another boy ran towards the inn from the streets, nervously slowing his pace when he saw him at his table, realising he shouldn’t run in front of a guest, and set a full pot of honey next to the collection of pastries.  
“The mister will need a spoon,” the first boy reprimanded the second one. “I’m sorry, sir.”  
He opened the honey pot for him and put it back on the table with a certain elegance in his movements. The second boy quickly returned from the kitchen with a small spoon, apologising.  
“It’s alright,” Aziraphale reassured him. By then, he was beaming with delight at the feast waiting for him. His bright smile worked wonders on Oscar’s mood. He smiled back at him and when he returned to his kitchen, Aziraphale noticed a little spring in his step.

Aziraphale was far too engaged with his cream puffs to notice the kerfuffle around him, until a certain phrase caught his attention.  
“The chickens didn’t come out this morning. Didn’t want to.”  
He looked up from his book. A lady was chatting with the innkeeper. They cast a few glances in his direction, but he did not blame him. He did look weird. He would have taken a peek at him, too.

"Maybe a fox? It has been rather dry the past month, so they may be wandering closer to the village."  
"Could be, could be." The lady leaned closer to the innkeeper and lowered her voice. Her methods were no match for Aziraphale's superhuman ears, though.  
"My Claudette said she saw a man standing in the forest."  
"A man? A stranger?"  
"She said it _looked_ like a man. But she did not catch his features. It was too dark."  
"Did you get a look at him?"  
"No, not at all."  
"And Guillaume is still at the fair?"  
Mme de la Croix fell quiet, a concerned look on her face she couldn't hide. "Yes."  
"Sabine, you should get back home. Please, set the eggs on the table, here. I will bring them to the kitchen and I will make sure to send one of the boys over later today with the money."  
"Thank you, Marianne. But I cannot go home yet. There are documents I need to sign, over at the mayor's house, and I need to be there in person."  
"Ah... that is inconvenient. Would you like me to send Oscar over, in the meantime? Just for peace of mind."  
Sabine de la Croix looked over at the kitchen window where Oscar was standing, picking tiny pieces of sand and leaves out of the heap of raisins on the counter.  
"Oh, it's not necessary, Marianne, the girl is already seventeen years old, and it is a Wednesday, so I cannot imagine there will be a great many people at the mayor's."  
"Well, if you change your mind, just ask. Oscar will be over in the late afternoon with the payment for the eggs, anyway."  
"Of course. Thank you."  
Aziraphale quietly closed his book and reached in his pocket for some francs. He wrapped the single cream puff he had left in a handkerchief, laid the coins on the table (generous tip included) and got up, leaving the town square swiftly, and unnoticed. The town folk may have been curious, but all were minding their own business and were too occupied with their work to pay the stranger having pastries for breakfast much attention. He hurried along the small path Sabine de la Croix had come from.

Back at the farm, Claudette was on her guard. She sat outside on the small wooden bench her father had made years ago, a book she had borrowed from the church library on her lap, but she hadn't read a single sentence yet. Her eyes moved from the chicken, happily cooing in the meadow, to the trees where she had seen the figure. She had not been able to stop herself from shivering all morning. She didn't feel ill, and it wasn't cold, either. It was something else. Somehow, Claudette could sense it in her bones. A dangerous creature was lurking in the woods today, those familiar woods she had known all her life. What it was, she did not know. But she wanted it gone, away from here. Away from her family, her forest, her chickens. She stared at the trees, waiting for the tiniest movement. It didn't come. But she had carried her father's scythe from the shed, just in case anything would happen. It was right next to her, leaning against the wall, within arm's reach.

The demon was not difficult to find, not for an experienced angel, that is. Aziraphale noticed a figure next to the peaceful stream he had followed, a few hundred yards upstream from the small farmhouse he suspected Sabine to live in. The figure was crouching, slowly moving his hands beneath the water's surface, as if he were washing them. Aziraphale wished it was just a vagrant stopping to drink and bathe for a while. Unfortunately, he knew better and also happened to be the sole angel in the whole arondissement. He looped his shoulders and his neck, took a deep breath in, and with all the divine power he could muster, he paced towards the hell spawn.  
_"Leave this place at once!"_ he howled in a much lower voice than he normally used. He really could be quite intimidating. If he felt like it. The light radiating from him was so bright it made the demon topple over, almost diving into the stream face-down, hissing like a stray cat. "Aaghh!"  
_"Be gone. The wrath of heaven compels you, through its vessel, Aziraphale."_  
"Aziraphale!" The voice was familiar, somehow. "Stop it, you idiot!"  
"Excuse me?" Aziraphale blinked, trying to get a closer look at the filthy creature from hell, lying on his side. Losing his focus, his halo became dim, allowing for a better view. It was Crawly.  
"You threw me in the creek," he sputtered, trying to spit out the water.  
"I'm so sorry. I didn't see it was you."  
"Can you see it now? Now that I'm all wet?" Crawly grumbled as he stood up. He breathed out, slowly, making the air around him simmer with heat. His clothes dried almost instantly. "That's better."  
"I really am very sorry."  
"Yeah, I'd be sorry too, if I had ruined these looks."  
"Well, they weren't ruined. You look the same as before..."  
Crawly glanced at his reflection in the river. "Not really. This-" he ran his hand through his hair, "will take some work to get back into shape."  
Now that he insisted, perhaps his hair really was a bit disheveled. It was just that to Aziraphale, it didn't look bad at all.  
"May I ask what you were doing?" he inquired. "You weren't... poisoning that body of water, were you?"  
"What if I was?" Crawly replied, in a rather hostile tone.  
"Well, if you were, I would have to object."  
"Would you, now."  
"Yes! This river leads to a very hospitable and generous village. It is their main source of potable water. Plus, it passes by a good family." Aziraphale gestured to the farmhouse of the de la Croix family.  
"Has nothing to do with me," Crawly replied. "I was sent here and this is what I was told to do. I have to finish the job, or I will get in trouble. You know how it is. They have their targets. I can't leave before this year's harvest is toast."  
"I know, yes, I know very well. But I still have to object. On a personal level."  
"Oh?"  
"These people," Aziraphale lowered his voice, "are poor enough as they are. The last thing they need is another bad harvest. Haven't you heard about the price increases? How much a single loaf of bread costs you these days?"  
Crawly shrugged. "I only just arrived. I honestly just popped in to do this and I would have been on my way again."  
"You should stay some time. It is actually very nice out here."  
"Is it? Anyway, mate, I can't say I care. They'll figure something out. Blame someone else. Throw them in the creek and be done with it. Young woman from around here, in all likelihood. It'll all resolve itself."  
_Claudette_, Aziraphale thought, thinking of the daughter in the farmhouse, who had witnessed a demon this morning and had survived, but would likely be blamed for whatever Crawly was sent here to do.  
"Let me give you a bit of background," he said, taking some of his books out of his bag. "This is what the literate people are reading these days. Increasingly liberal political thought. The Zeitgeist, if I may use the word in these francophone lands, is changing. The onus is on science, not on the church."  
"Good for them, I say."  
"Yes, well, probably it is good for them. But societal upheaval is in the making. The signs are all there. Now, I do not fancy myself powerful enough to stop it in its tracks, and I would not want to. However... my judgment is that this village needs a miracle. Not a curse."  
Crawly grinned. "My. Sounds like I’m in for a treat. Will you perform a magic trick for me today, Aziraphale?"  
"I might. But I could use your help."

Just like before, the animals could feel it before she could. Claudette noticed the birds were no longer singing their songs in the forest. Looking over the meadows, she saw dark clouds gathering at the horizon. That's probably why, she thought, and went back to her book. She had only turned one page when the chickens ran past her, hurrying back into their coop. All was quiet. Soft chicken feathers whirled around the garden, falling to the ground. Claudette's hands were trembling. She hardly dared look up.  
The figure was back. But he was at the end of the garden, now, standing upright, dressed in black, his hair in disarray, baring his teeth as he grinned at her. She did not know how he got there, or what he was up to, but he was evil. This was clear as day to Claudette. Whatever he had come here to do, it would not be kind to her. Feeling that any action from her side would be utterly futile, she reached beside her and grabbed her father's scythe so tightly her knuckles turned white. To make matters worse, the figure started walking towards her.  
"I have come to bring havoc upon this house," he stated. His was the most terrifying voice she had ever heard. If you could call it a voice; it was more of a growl. It did speak French, but it didn't sound... human. As if it didn't come from this man's throat, but from beneath the earth. This was wrong. This might be the end. Shaking on her feet, Claudette stood up from the bench nevertheless, ready to face whatever this creature was.  
"I was hungry, so, so hungry, and here you are, all alone," he continued, coming closer and closer. "No one can help you now."  
The roses her father had planted last fall dried up and withered where he passed them. He was only a few feet away from her now. Claudette swung the scythe, gaining momentum, preparing to strike at him, when another voice shouted "Enough!"  
A white light shone upon the dark creature. Claudette cowered in fear and shock, but her fear was nothing compared to what the light did to the evil man. He let out a scream that was so loud, and lasted so long, that it would not surprise her if the people in town could hear it, too. Screeching in agony, he twirled around and then seemed to crumble, becoming smaller and smaller, until he was just a heap of ashes on the garden path. She turned around, shielding her eyes from the light. Another figure stood there, on the roof of her house. He was the light source.  
"Fear no more, my child," the voice boomed down. "The demon can no longer hurt you."  
"Who are you?" Claudette asked.  
"I am an angel of heaven," was his answer.  
Claudette fell to her knees, dropping the scythe and pressing her palms together in prayer.  
"You are safe now. Your mother will be home soon. When she arrives, give her what you have found in Coquettes nest."  
Claudette bowed her head, unable to see into the bright light any longer.  
"Farewell, good child."  
"Farewell," Claudette whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. After a while, the light was gone. The sky had returned to normal and the chicken ran out of the coop again, clapping their wings as if nothing special had happened. Claudette, still unstable on her feet, walked to the chicken coop. It was dark inside, but she knew her way around. Reaching in the small nest where Coquette usually lay her eggs, the second nest from the left, her hand found something cold and hard. An egg? She had to bring it outside to see. It looked like an egg, but it was far heavier and it shone like gold. Maybe it was gold. Claudette looked up towards the sky, realising that what she was holding in her hand was a miracle. She heard her mother at the door and ran towards her.  
“Mother!”  
She wasn’t alone. Next to Mme. Delacroix stood the baker’s servant, Oscar.  
“Oh. Hello,” Claudette made a bow to the unexpected guest.  
“Good day to you, mademoiselle,” he nodded, shyly. He had never been at their house before.  
“Child, what happened?” Mme. Delacroix asked, worry in her voice. “You look like you have seen… something terrible.”  
“Nothing’s wrong, mother. I… There was an angel here. We have been blessed. Look what I found in the chicken coop.”  
She opened her hand, showing the golden egg to two pairs of eyes in absolute marvel.

"It was a nice touch to bring the boy along. For some added credibility.” Crawly said and looked at the angel appreciatively, at their meeting spot, out of sight from the farm.  
“I know small town folk and how their minds work. We practically had to add a man as a witness; the two ladies would never have been able to cut it on their own.”  
“You know what, this was actually kind of a fun afternoon.”  
“Thank you for the theatrics," Aziraphale said to his accomplice.  
"I was pretty good, wasn't I?"  
"Yes, very convincing."  
"It's what I do."  
"Claudette is a good child. This will be beneficial for the church and its community. And you can tell your friends down below that you tried to poison the soil, but had to battle an angel, instead. And that the angel won."  
"Am I supposed to feel bad, now?" Crawly scoffed. "Because that is exactly what I'm going to tell them."  
"Good," Aziraphale replied, looking very pleased with himself.  
"I see it as a get-out-of-hell-free card. It's a great excuse to sod off and do nothing. It's not like you beat me in a fair fight."  
"Hm..."  
"Hey, get that grin off your face."  
Aziraphale could tell that Crawly didn't feel scorned at all. They smiled at each other for a few moments until both of them realised they were probably not supposed to enjoy each other's company.  
"I'll be off," Crawly said. "Have fun with whatever you're doing here."  
"Hold on," Aziraphale stopped him, "have this." He handed the demon the leftover profiterole. "It's a French cream puff. You should try it."  
Crawly raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "Should I?"  
"Yes, you should. And eat it quickly, or it will go bad, in the sun."  
"Alright then. Thanks."  
"Until we meet again!" Aziraphale waved. About two hour later, he had found the neighbouring village. It looked to be about two in the afternoon. With some luck, he might be able to get some déjeuner, still, if this town also had an inn... he looked around and found one almost right away, in the cool shadow of the church.  
"Today is a truly blessed day," he concluded, walking towards the entrée.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this and the research I did was a big part of that.  
Conditions for regular folk were pretty grim those days. Daily bread was almost a luxury. But there were still absolutely delicious pastries being baked in France. Some had not been introduced yet - such as the croissant and the éclair, even though they are usual suspects now. I picked a few that looked particularly appetising to me.


	3. Cascais, 1997

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 1st, 1997. The Hale-Bopp is scheduled to appear tonight and Aziraphale has secured a seat on the front row.  
He ponders creation on the beach until he is interrupted by an uninvited guest. They continue to ponder creation, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done research for the three-course meal and various types of wine in this chapter and I have to say it left me hungry.  
I really hope to get a chance to taste moscato de Alexandria some day soon.

_Starter_  
_ Caldeirada de Peixe_  
_ Salade de polvo_  
_Sardinhas em limão_

_Azeitonas e alho  
Quijo de ovelha_

_Wine of choice: Tinta Amareila (red, light, spicy)  
  
_  
_Main_  
Bacalhau  
Batatas assadas  
Legumes Salteados

_Wine of choice: Trincadeira (white, dry)  
  
_

_Dessert  
Papo de Anjo_

_Wine of choice: Moscato de Alexandria (white, sweet, fruity)_

The television in the corner was on mute. It did not disturb the quiet, peaceful atmosphere in the establishment of Mr. Nogueira, where light piano music streamed onto the patio. The silent TV showed the news, and subsequently, the weather forecast. 

Aziraphale, sat at one of the tables on the terrace of Mr. Nogueira's restaurant, peeked at the screen. It was situated inside the restaurant, about 70 feet away from him, but his eyes had no trouble deciphering that the sky would be bright this evening, and would most likely stay cloudless throughout the night.   
This news satisfied the angel. The comet would shine even brighter than it had done in the days before. He would be able to see it pretty soon now, he guessed. He had ordered a table on the terrace for six PM, which was very early for Portuguese standards, but Mr. Nogueira was glad to accommodate him. Aziraphale was a frequent guest by that time in 1997. 

It was his second year coming here when spring came to Europe. March was off-season, sort of like a hibernation period for the people from this town, who had to work all summer for the young people and families on holiday, and all winter for the old and retired folk who traded cold Northern Europe for Portugal to find some relief for their painful bones and joints. It was also the perfect time of year for Aziraphale to visit. He would stay until half June, when the temperatures rose and tourists would start showing up, and would return to England, where he had a more or less permanent residency. In his months spent here, he had overheard many elderly English people praise the weather at the Portuguese seaside, especially compared to Britain's climate of eternal drizzle and grey skies- but he, himself had never had a problem with the weather back home. He could find delight in a walk outside when it was raining, listening to the drops hitting the leaves of the trees above his head, breathing in the fresh smell of the grass after a shower. These little things told him that England was, in fact, his home. Perhaps it was weird for a celestial being to feel a sense of belonging in a particular country. But perhaps Aziraphale's personality had always been slightly off. Not much he could do about it.   
  


"Mr. A, good evening," Mr. Nogueira addressed him politely.

In these old restaurants, hospitality was still something the hosts prided themselves in. Mr. Nogueira did things the old way. That is why he had a habit of suddenly appearing by Aziraphale's side, asking if he needed anything before he had even had a chance to realise he needed something, himself.

"Good evening, Augusto."

"It is always good to see you."  
"Same to you, same to you." 

The men exchanged sincere smiles and Augusto poured him a drink.  
"Are you here for the comet?"  
"As a matter of fact, I am."  
Augusto looked up at the sky. It showed a very deep blue in the east, and a warm orange in the west, as if the sunset was a solid object that was gently floating on the ocean's surface. "You're going to get a good look at it, I think. There were some other guests who were talking about it, too."  
"Well, I sure hope so."   
"Madeira. On the house," he announced, and set the small glass on Aziraphale's table. "I will be with you soon with the specials."  
Aziraphale was very fond of the specials, since they were fresh, surprising, and always featured in-season ingredients. He wondered what type of fish was the catch of the day this Tuesday evening.  
Augusto returned from the kitchen. A familiar bustle was audible from that direction; pots and pans were put in their right place, cutlery was washed and returned to their drawers. Aziraphale was excited about the food and momentarily forgot all about the reason he had shown up here tonight.  
“Let’s begin with our starters: our famous fish soup, of course; squid salad with garlic; sardines in olive oil with a dash of lemon; and also some simple bread with sheep cheese.”  
Augusto stopped and cast him a look. “But I think I already know Mr. A’s answer.”  
“I have practically never picked just one, have I?”  
“Never. Okay, then, Mr. A, I will be back with a selection of all starters of today. I’ll make sure to pick a good white wine to go with them.”  
“I trust your judgment, Augusto.”

This wasn't a meal. It was a feast. As Aziraphale looked upon his table, all of the starters meticulously put together to achieve the most appetizing effect, he realised that all of this food was still only the first round- and it made him feel like a king.   
Arranging and rearranging the small dishes with various sauces and dips, Augusto smiled apologetically at his guest.   
"It's already perfect," the angel said, diplomatically.  
"I'm sorry, Mr. A, for taking some time. But I think it could look even better."  
This was before people had started taking pictures of every single plate of food they consumed in a day. Nobody would see the table set-up, except for Aziraphale himself. A testament to the pride Augusto Nogueira took in his work.  
"Say, Augusto," he asked, "how is your family doing these days?"  
The last time he had been here, a year ago, Augusto had told him about the new house his wife and he had bought together. Any other guest would have been bored out of their skull having to listen to painfully long discourse on the problems they had encountered with the electricity to the house, the type of paint they needed for the wooden panes on the outside, or the type of wall coating the real estate agent had recommended. Aziraphale may have been the only person in the country who actually enjoyed hearing his stories. He liked to know how humans lived. Their worries, their fears, their doubts. Their dreams and ambitions, their talents and abilities.   
He knew this hobby would be considered a strange quirk by his peers in heaven. But he couldn't help it. He loved people.  
  
"We are having some trouble, Nadia and me," Augusto answered.  
"Oh! Are you? That is unfortunate news."  
"Yes, it is very unfortunate." Augusto sighed. Realising that the table was ready and he was now just standing next to his guest, he excused himself.  
"But I will not disturb you with that. Bom apetite."  
"No, Augusto, it's fine, it's fine," Aziraphale said. "Really. You can tell me."  
Augusto looked around his restaurant, in the same habitual order he checked it about fifty times every night he was open. There were a few other guests, but they were not ready to order their food yet. It was still far too early for Mediterranean families to have dinner. Instead, they were having some drinks. The two children at the restaurant were content with their sodas.   
Augusto seemed relieved to comply with Aziraphale's request as he sat down at his table. "Please, do not let me disturb your dinner."  
"I shall not let you," Aziraphale smiled at him, and picked up an olive to drench it in garlic oil.  
"Okay, Mr. A. Every single relationship has its happy days, and its sad days. People are different and they do not always agree. You know this, I know this. Everyone knows this is how the world works. And when something bad happens, well, you work through those days, right? Because you care for the other person. You care for your wife, so you try to support her as much as you can. That is what a good man is supposed to do. That is what I have always felt. That is what I saw from my mother and father."  
"They must have loved each other very much," Aziraphale mused.  
"They did, Mr. A. They loved each other more than they loved anything else in the whole wide world. And it was nice seeing that, and growing up in their company."   
"That sounds wonderful," Aziraphale said, wondering what it would be like to have a family, to have parents, people with flaws. To be loved by imperfect people.   
"They were so happy when I introduced Nadia into our family," Augusto said, shaking his head.   
"What happened?" Aziraphale asked, his tone extra mild, taking a break from the fish soup to pick a sardine from a blue platter with lovely, weathered decorations.   
"I wish I could point to a single reason..."   
"It's not the same as it was before?"  
"It isn't. Something has changed. In Nadia. While I wasn't paying attention. While I was here, at work. It sneaks up on you, sometimes, I guess."  
"So what changed?"  
"Little things. She used to leave me notes around the house when she went out earlier than me, wishing me a good day, that kind of stuff. She used to really look forward to a night out together. We would laugh more. We don't speak much on a regular day, now. She prefers to sleep in the guest room. I asked her if there was somebody else. She says there is nobody else and I believe her. But something isn't right. Something that was right, no longer is."  
"Please remind me how long you have been married now?"  
"Thirteen years. Fourteen years in October. We were twenty-two on our wedding day."  
Aziraphale had some vague recollections of a picture from that day that Augusto had shown him, years ago. Two gorgeous people looking their best. Both had beaming smiles and thick, dark hair. Nadia's dress was long, traditional, with a lot of lace and a long veil. There were tiny daisies in her hair. The cake had looked highly promising, as well.   
"Hm. Have you considered you may have changed, too?"  
Augusto looked up at his guest. "Maybe I have. But I don't understand. I have always been good to her."  
"I do not doubt it."  
"If this stays the same..." Augusto swallowed, as if he had to take a sour-tasting medicine. "If this stays the same, I think Nadia will ask me to divorce her. Soon, I am afraid."  
The sheep cheese paired with the garlic and mustard dip was so good, Aziraphale was almost too pre-occupied with it to take in what Augusto was saying. Almost.  
"That would be a shame. I am sad to hear it."  
"I am sad to say it. But you see, Mr. A... When I proposed to Nadia, the idea was that it was a proposal for life. I do not want a divorce. I would never wish for a divorce. I feel that it would be wrong to end it that way."  
"Augusto," Aziraphale interrupted him gently. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but did one of your parents pass away?"  
"It's alright. My father did. When he was just forty-nine. It was an accident. He was fixing a roof for a customer and he fell. In an unlucky way."  
"That must have been awful."  
"We had just gotten married at the time." Augusto rubbed his face with his palms, as if he wanted to dispel the memory.  
"So, all you have seen from your parents was 'until death do us part'."  
"Yes, it was."  
"Perhaps that experience makes this situation more difficult."  
"That's possible. Maybe."  
"Are you afraid that you will disappoint your mother if Nadia and you break up?"  
Augusto nodded, making a face. "I am. I don't want to cause her any more grief than she already has." He looked up at Aziraphale. "Do I have to pay for this therapy session, later?"  
Aziraphale laughed. "It's free of charge. I am always happy to listen. But I wouldn't want to pretend that I know everything about your situation. And I am not very qualified to give advice on these matters. I have never been married."  
"I see. Well, at least you don't have to worry about it, then."  
Aziraphale shrugged and took a big gulp of wine. "There are upsides and downsides to everything."  
"I guess so."  
"Are you still in love with Nadia?"  
The host was quiet for a while. Quiet for too long. Aziraphale knew that the answer was negative.   
"We were too young," was what he said. "I think that is the problem."  
"And you have lasted for thirteen years," Aziraphale said softly. "But this has been going on for a long time, hasn't it?"  
"Yes. It has."  
"I think," Aziraphale said, "that spouses owe it to one another to let them be happy. If Nadia and you would be happier not being married, then I would say that it is better than being unhappy."  
"Don't you think getting a divorce is a bad way to end a commitment like this? To just end things and walk away because you are unhappy?"  
"What makes good people happy and what is right is often the same."  
"I used to think marriage was sacred," Augusto mumbled.  
"Love is sacred. Marriage is not."  
"I have to say, that sounds very simplistic," Augusto chuckled.  
"It is very simple."  
  
  
"Excuse me, sir!" one of the guests at a table inside the restaurant called for Augusto.  
"Thank you, Mr. A," Augusto said before he got up and hurried to help his clientele. "It really helps to talk about these things and not keep it all inside."  
He really was a good man, Aziraphale thought. Taking another slice of bread, royally covering it with cheese and dip, he looked up to the darkened sky. He gasped, forgetting the bite he had been about to take. The Hale-Bopp had arrived.  
  
The comet took away most of his focus. He was never too distracted to appreciate the quality of the food, but when Augusto walked by to bring him his main dish, he had almost forgotten all about it.  
“Should I move your table further to the seaside?” Augusto offered. “Maybe the view will be better, there?”  
“Oh, no, please, I am quite happy here.”  
“As you wish.” Augusto took the lid off a pan containing a seabass. A seabass, bathing in a sea of stir-fried vegetables and loads of garlic. Just the way the angel liked it. The baked potatoes also looked just right; a golden type of light brown.  
“I have pre-selected the wine for you, with your permission.”  
“You have my permission, Augusto, you know that by now.”  
Augusto poured him a glass and left him to his stargazing until the angel was ready for the third course.  
"Our dessert wine is made from Moscato de Alexandria. It goes especially well with the papo de anjo."  
Aziraphale smiled at the prospect. "Then I would have to try it."  
“Understood, Mr. A.”  
Augusto had only turned his heels for a moment, and Aziraphale had only looked up at the Hale-Bopp for a few seconds, but when his eyes returned to his table, somebody was sitting across from him.   
“Crowley,” he gasped. Because it was him. Of course it was. “Do you absolutely _have_ to do that?”  
“Do what?” Crowley leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand.   
“Show up out of the blue- oh, you know what I mean,” Aziraphale protested.  
“I don’t _have_ to, no.” He smiled at the angel. His white teeth glimmered. He was not dressed for the occasion at all; donned in tight jeans, a white sweater with a big red stripe on it and a rather ugly jacket from some sports brand. But he looked- he looked really good. Better than the last time he had seen him. Aziraphale guessed that he was aware of that and exploited it every chance he got. When had he last seen him, anyway?  
“Moscato de Alexandria,” Crowley pronounced the name of the wine. “I last had wine from those grapes centuries ago.” He looked up at the sky, where the comet was moving in its way, slowly. “We’ve been around for a while now, haven’t we?”  
  
Aziraphale followed his gaze and for a minute, both of them were quiet. Because they _had _been around for a while. Aziraphale did not just understand what he was saying, he felt it, deep in his bones.  
Remembering that it was a creature from Hell sitting across from him, who had just popped up out of nowhere, he tore his eyes away from the sky.  
“Tell me, why are you here, all of a sudden?”  
Crowley turned and laughed when he saw his face. “My goodness, Aziraphale, am I not allowed to come and go as I please without this inquisition?”  
“You would ask me the same question.”  
“Alright, alright. Do you know Boca do Inferno? It’s right over there. That way,” he made a gesture that could not be interpreted at all.  
“Yes, I know where it is.”  
“Have you been?”  
“I went as close as I could go.”  
“Ah. Yes, it is not called that for nothing.” He smiled at Aziraphale. “Sorry. It really is a nice spot.”  
“It probably is. But you were there to do… what?”  
Crowley shook his head, waved his hand. “Business. You know.”  
No, I don’t, Aziraphale wanted to interject, but he bit his tongue. No confrontation. There were far too many people around for that.  
  
  
“Ah, Mr. A, you have a guest,” Augusto noted, bringing the delicate dessert to Aziraphale’s table.  
“Evening,” Crowley greeted him.  
“Would the gentleman care for a plate of papo de anjo, too?”  
“Don’t stress yourself. We’ll share,” Crowley answered, feeling Aziraphale’s angry, shocked eyes on him and doing nothing about it. “Oh, but I would like a glass of that same wine, please, if you have it.”  
“I certainly do. I will be right back.”  
“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley squealed in delight at his face. “Do you know what ‘papo de anjo’ means? It means that…” he took Aziraphale’s fork to steal a piece of what looked like glazed donuts from the plate, “too many of those sweet desserts you have been eating will make you a fat angel.”  
Aziraphale puffed his cheeks full of air, ready to hurl insults right back at him, remembering how utterly demonic he was, at his core.  
“Mm, these are delicious,” he spoke with his mouth full. “Oh, Azzie, I didn’t mean it!” he exclaimed when he saw his face. “You look dashing. You look fit and smart and you are…well, simply a snack.”  
Was he..? Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that. And _Azzie_? He was flushed, he could feel it. Augusto saved him, pouring Crowley a glass of wine, giving Aziraphale some time to cool off.  
“Cheers, mate,” Crowley clinked his glass to Aziraphale’s.  
“Cheers, yes.”  
“To eternity, hm?”  
“Eternity…”  
“For as long as it lasts. Like that big light up in the sky.”  
  
Augusto cleared the table. His hands made movements they had made a thousand times before, on a thousand nights before this one. He didn’t need to involve his thinking mind in his work sometimes, and he was glad that it was off-season and only some regulars had shown up tonight.  
With stacks of plates resting on his forearms, he took a good look at the Hale-Bopp for the first time that day. It was a sight to behold, even though he couldn’t quite reason why he liked seeing it, or why everyone seemed to be making a big fuss over it. Maybe it was nothing more than the novelty of it, he pondered. But he felt, somewhere deep down, that the novelty was not all there was to it. For a moment, he felt dizzy, and had to shake his head to lose the nausea. Not wanting his staff to think their boss was having sentimental thoughts over a comet, he quickly returned the plates and cutlery to the kitchen.  
“Good work, as always, Marcos,” he praised his cook, who gave him a high five in passing. He put the plates next to the sink, where the kitchen help immediately began cleaning them.  
Augusto liked Mr. A, not just as a person, but as a restaurant guest, as well. There were several reasons for this. For one, he always tipped. And not at all like the penny-pinching English crowd who frequented his place en masse over the summer. No, Mr. A knew quality when he saw it and he was generous in showing his appreciation. He always dined alone- except for tonight. He didn’t mind waiting a bit. He was polite and always in a good mood. And he never left anything, not _anything_, on his plate. Tonight’s plates were so empty that they could pass for fresh out of the dishwasher, if it wasn’t for small stains from the spices and sauces.  
“Hey, when we finish cleaning, you can go home for the night,” Augusto told his employees.  
“We can be done in under an hour if you lend us a hand, boss,” Marcos yelled from his corner.  
“No problem. Let’s go for half an hour."  
  
Once they were outside and out of sight from any mortal soul, Crowley took off his dark sunglasses and put them in his jacket. He blinked, getting used to the light (not more than the moon, the comet, a few stars and the light coming out of the restaurant windows), and looked at Aziraphale.  
"So, where are you staying?"  
"I have taken up lodgings in the town nearby."  
"Lissabon?"  
"Cascais."  
"Way to live that upper class dandy lifestyle of yours."  
"I only stay here during the quiet months. I have only booked until mid-June. The price really is very reasonable."  
"Sure. Reasonable on a heavenly allowance, maybe. This is a pretty remote spot, though. Do you need a ride back?" Crowley gestured to somewhere behind the road.  
"In your vehicle, you mean?"  
"Yeah. I can open the sunroof for you."  
Aziraphale had seen Crowley's car and its 'sunroof' feature before and he was not dying to hop in the passenger's seat again. "It is very kind of you, but I arrived here on foot and I honestly feel like a seaside stroll. You know, to watch the comet. And for digestion. As to not become a fat angel."  
Crowley laughed. "I see your point. Alright. Do you mind if I join you?"  
"But what about your car? Are you just leaving it parked there?"  
"Eh, I'll pick it up in the morning."   
So, it appeared that the demon was not going to leave. Aziraphale could not refuse him permission to stick around for his nighttime walk. Refusing anyone his company was not in his nature. They walked towards the ocean, down the stairs. They were made of concrete and their handles were covered in rust.   
"Let's walk along the beach until we get to the next flight of stairs. We can follow the road back to Cascais from there."  
"Fine by me."  
Aziraphale looked to his side. Crowley's presence, and his insistence to stay with him, made him nervous. But at the same time, he was glad, inexplicably glad, that he was here.   
  
They had been walking for just a short while, listening to the sound of the waves, when Aziraphale noticed movement nearby.  
“Look!” he exclaimed and pointed at a small, green lizard. It was hiding beneath the plants growing on the road slightly above them.  
“Ah. Those are great, aren’t they?”  
“Yes. It is lovely! It has pretty speckles. Look at its little snout,” Aziraphale admired the animal.  
“Hello, love,” Crowley addressed the lizard and stuck out his hand. The lizard looked at the demon with its head to its side. He then walked over to sit on his arm.  
“Hey. This one wants to be your friend,” Aziraphale beamed.  
“We get along nicely, lizards and I.”  
“You do?”  
“We sure do. We have for thousands of years.” The lizard explored Crowley’s arm and crawled up towards his shoulder.  
“Interesting. I did not know that.” Aziraphale looked around. “I mostly get along well with birds. But the only ones around right now are…” he made a face. “Seagulls.”  
“Aren’t they, too, included in the Almighty’s great plan?” Crowley asked, a light sneer audible in his voice.  
“They are. But I have my preferences. I, for instance, really like wrens.”  
Crowley chuckled. “Figures.”  
“They are very cute and puffy and their song is unmatched in the places where they reside.”  
“Oh, I am not arguing that. They can sing, alright.” Crowley set the lizard back where they had found it. “Off you go. And have a good night.”  
Aziraphale had forgotten that he was sharing this walk with a demon. Again. He looked beside him. Next to him was a man who loved nature. Consequently, creation. It was hard to wrap his head around the dissonance between what he knew in his head and what he had seen with his eyes, so hard that it made him frown. Crowley was a demon. But it was no longer possible for Aziraphale to see him as a bad guy. He was not.  
  
“So, you often go to that place?”  
“I do. They have the best dishes and the best view. Certainly the best view for tonight.”  
“You’re not worried that they might start to suspect what you really are?”  
“No. Not at all. I have my techniques.”  
“Watch out. Don’t be too overly angelic.”  
“Well, what if I can help in a non-angelic way?”  
Crowley sighed. “There you go. Have you conjured up some miracles? How many?”  
“Not a single one.”  
“So you’ve been offering some free counselling. What was it about this time, with the restaurant guy?” Crowley seemed to give it some thought. Aziraphale did not comment. The less he knew, the better.  
“He didn’t look like he needed much help career-wise. So it must have been relationships. His mom sick, or something?”  
“His mother is in good health.”  
“You were offering him marriage counselling?”  
Aziraphale couldn’t lie, so he chose to say nothing.  
“Can’t you just sit back and watch? It’s what I do. It makes my day-to-day life so much more relaxing.”  
Aziraphale shook his head. “That is just not what I was made for.”  
“Tell me about this guy, then. Fighting with his spouse?”  
“Nothing violent.”  
“Grown apart?”  
“Something like that.”  
“Are they still on speaking terms?”  
“They are. But they are not exactly talking.”  
“Hm. That is… yeah, that is not good.”  
“Definitely not. And I believe that he tried, that both of them have tried, and are still trying every day.” He exhaled, feeling the weight of the situation as if he was living it, himself. “Nadia is… she was his perfect match. Back when they were in their twenties. And those years just aren’t coming back anymore.”  
“True. Best thing they can do is move on.”  
“I… agree,” Aziraphale replied, not understanding how it was even possible for him to agree with someone like Crowley. “It is just a difficult decision for Augusto to make. He asked me what to do. I tried to give him some advice.”  
"If you'd ask me," Crowley began, "he should do whatever the hell he wants. But he needs to figure out what he wants, first. He can always choose not to act on what he wants. But the choice is his alone. He can keep the needs of others in mind. The stakeholders, so to speak. His missus. But what he should definitely not consider is what is expected of him."  
That sounded... reasonable. Reason, coming from a demon, was a rarity as far as Aziraphale's experiences went. The demon in question lifted his legs one by one and took off his shoes, carrying them in his hand as he continued barefoot. "And what did you tell him, in your heaven-sent knowledge?"  
"I told him that he should do what makes him and Nadia happy. If what makes them happy is breaking up, then they should break up."  
"Hm. Really? I thought you lot would have your mouths full of the _sanctity of marriage_," Crowley said, looking repulsed.  
"Marriage isn't sacred. Love is."  
That answer seemed to surprise the demon. "Correct. Where did you find that nugget of wisdom?"  
"Within myself..?"  
"Pretty good, for divine folk."  
"Thank you."  
"Thought you weren't fond of self-determination. Not for people, at least."  
"I cannot speak for my brethren. But I see not much wrong with it."  
"There's a song about it that I sorta like, well, it's not my style, actually, but I still sorta dig it. It’s called, 'It's my life'. Ever heard of that one?"   
As a matter of fact, Aziraphale had. “English guy singing?”  
“Yeah. From last decade, if I’m not mistaken.”  
“You are not.” Aziraphale smiled and turned to Crowley. “I like it, too.”  
“You’re kidding. I always pictured you at the opera, not listening to the radio.”  
“Well, I _have_ been at many operas, I have to admit. But I feel that one should not limit oneself when it comes to art. Did you hear their follow-up? I loved that one.”  
“_The colour of spring_? About falling from religious beliefs?” Crowley said, incredulously. “The one that was basically one big middle finger to the church?”  
“Well, I liked it,” Aziraphale said, not feeling like defending himself. Not to this demon. Besides, he was a little bit drunk. Portuguese dishes really come to life when paired with a good wine, but he hadn’t limited himself to just three glasses.  
“I had no idea I could talk to you about these things, but here I am. Pleasantly surprised.”  
“The sensation is mutual.”  
“I should have done this sooner…”  
  
Aziraphale lasted another ten minutes or so with his shoes on his feet. He followed Crowley’s example and took them off, and his socks, planting the soles of his feet firmly on the earth. The day’s warm sunlight still lingered in the sand, making it very pleasant to walk on. Crowley waited for him, but Aziraphale didn’t move. His eyes were on the Hale-Bopp.  
“Flashy piece of burning rock, that one,” the demon commented.  
“Creation is glorious,” Aziraphale preached.  
“Yeah.” Crowley looked around. “Wanna sit down? Watch for a while?”  
When Aziraphale hesitated, Crowley flopped down on the beach, leaving him with little choice. He sat down next to him, this sworn enemy of his, the worries he should have had at a time like this gone from his head. They were both quiet for some time. Aziraphale fancied he could hear the comet as it soared through space, hidden far beyond the calm washing of the waves on the shore, but he knew it wasn’t possible, even for an angel. Still, it was hard to stop imagining what it would sound like; buzzing, sizzling, crackling as it passed the living souls, down here. The hum of space debris. Leftover crumbs from creation.  
Crowley laid down on his back, resting his head on his right arm. Aziraphale knew where his left arm was; reaching in Aziraphale’s direction, his hand open: an invitation. He also knew where his eyes were. He tried to breathe. The alcohol passing through his veins made matters worse. But he wanted the rush. He wanted to feel light-headed. He needed the fog in his brains, the wobble in his legs. He somehow felt that he wouldn’t be able to do this without it.   
Copying Crowley, he laid down next to him. Without looking at him straight, he caught his expression from the corner of his eye. Amused. Smitten. Impatient.   
  
The comet continued in its path, soaring towards its goal, thoughtlessly. Aziraphale sighed, but it did not calm his nerves. He was aware of his heart. It had been a very long time since he had last been aware of it. _Help me, _he thought, and reached out to hold Crowley's hand. It gave both of them a little electric shock, but not an unpleasant one. To Aziraphale, it was like grabbing a glowing piece of coal. He didn't know what he had expected; Crowley was from hell, of course his skin would be warm. He squeezed Aziraphale's hand, not too firmly, just a little bit.   
It felt as if a door had been opened, somewhere. Not in tangible reality, but in a sort of metaphysical way. Energy flowed between the two of them, even with such a small, practically meaningless form of contact – there was no explaining it, but it was undeniable. Crowley accepted _something_ about Aziraphale, something he possessed, had always possessed, but had no control over. He closed his eyes and concentrated, sinking deeper into Crowley's presence with every breath he took, returning the favour. He wasn't even sure what he was doing, but he could sense that it was working. Working both ways.  
  
When Aziraphale started taking notice of his surroundings again, he had lost all sense of time. The sound of the waves slowly returned to his conscious mind, along with the feeling of the earth below, the Hale-Bopp in the sky, the sand between his toes. Crowley's hand in his had left no room for anything else.   
He blinked as if he had just woken up after a long night's sleep. He looked to his side and found Crowley's serpent eyes looking back at him. He had never seen him look this serious before.   
"That was a real spiritual experience," he whispered hoarsely.  
"What did we _do_?"  
"Made a connection."  
"Right. A connection of what?"  
"Dunno."  
Aziraphale emptied his lungs, suddenly feeling very sleepy.   
"Not sure about you, but I'm gonna blame it on that space object floating in the air. Things like that will make you susceptible to all kinds of wobbly stuff."  
Aziraphale shook his head. "That is silly."  
"You'd be surprised how many people believe it."  
"You would know, with your cults and all. How many people's heads did you infect with that nonsense?"  
"Hey, now," Crowley protested. He let go of his hand, giving Aziraphale a soft shock as he was suddenly shut out again. "People can believe whatever they so wish."  
"They can."  
Crowley threw his legs out long and hopped back on his feet, shaking the sand of his clothes. "I'm going back to town."  
  
The coast-side road was long and empty. It took the angel and demon a little over half an hour to reach the city line, and another twenty minutes or so to get to Aziraphale's boarding house. They didn't encounter anyone, save for the locusts singing their songs in the dark, and a couple of lizards crossing the asphalt, undisturbed by any traffic. The comet, still in the sky, but having lost some of its brightness, was staring down upon them, without judgment, without comment.   
All the while, they didn't speak. Aziraphale wished Crowley would say something, but he sensed that it would be unwise to start a conversation from his side. He was still glad he was walking next to him, though. He wasn't sure if it was caused by their skin contact, but memories were coming back to him, one after the other. He had known Crowley from the moment he was created, so there were a great many memories. They had run into each other from time to time. Not significantly more often than he had run into other demons. But these particular memories had now become very important, and he needed to go through them one by one. The two world wars. France. Kyoto. Ancient Rome. (Was that when Crowley had last had Moscato de Alexandria?) Through the centuries of human history, Aziraphale traveled further backwards in time. Eden. Heaven.  
  
  
Aziraphale had no choice when they found themselves at his doorstep. He had to say something, so he did.   
"These are my temporary quarters."  
"Not too shabby."  
"You know, I was thinking of when we first met."  
"What about it?"  
He seemed so distant. As if he couldn't wait to fly off to his car and leave the country. He felt for him, so very much.   
"Do you reckon... the potential for this link that we made... that it has always been there?"  
It was dark, and Crowley had his head turned away from him, but Aziraphale could still see it. His lips were shaking, and so were his hands.   
"I can't talk about it now," he hissed.   
"I see..." Aziraphale looked up to his window on the second floor. He couldn't imagine going back into his rooms, couldn't imagine falling asleep. A red glow in the east told him that the night was almost over and that they must have been on the beach for hours.  
"But do you think this could have happened with someone else?"  
"No," Crowley said, with emphasis.   
"Well," Aziraphale decided to wrap things up and let him go, "Thank you for tonight."  
"I didn't do anything. You did."  
"I'm not sure about that. But Crowley, I will never forget it."  
Crowley let out a trembling sigh and covered his face with his hands.   
"Are you alright?"  
"Give me some time," Crowley said, his voice low and raspy.  
"Can I contact you later, maybe?"  
"Yes. Write me."  
Aziraphale smiled. "I will, then. Where do you reside, these days?"  
"Here," the demon handed him a crumpled piece of paper. There was a logo on it; some flames, a hammer and some sort of mountain goat. Aziraphale did his best to decipher the text on the back. It was an address, alright, in Norway.  
"I didn't imagine you enjoying life up north?"  
"It's a business address. I'm coordinating some moral panic with a satanic twist there," was the vague explanation. "I'm not there very often, so I can't make any promises. But I will try to check the mail."  
"Thank you."  
"Later, angel."  
"Good night, Crowley."  
  
He watched him as he disappeared in the dark, the characteristic swing still in his step, but it was less pronounced. It was difficult to believe, but he knew it was the truth: Crowley was reserved; shy. He may have overpowered him a bit, somehow, with his presence, back on the beach.  
"I didn't mean to," Aziraphale said to his silhouette, just when he vanished from his sight. He cast his eyes down. He missed him already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lizard Aziraphale and Crowley spot is an "Iberian emerald lizard", native to the Iberian peninsula and also very cute.  
I'll go listen to Talk Talk, now.


	4. London, 2007

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the night spent on the Portuguese seaside in 1997, Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley. The weeks turn into months, the months turn into years. All he has is an expanding collection of letters and other memorabilia. He bides his time, over cups of cocoa, alone in his rooms. Patience will be rewarded, however trying the loneliness may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how I was craving scones after this...

_Cream tea menu_

  
_One freshly baked scone with clotted cream_  
_ Our selection of jams:_  
_ strawberry – the classic _  
_ lemon curd – for a bit of sour to go with your sweet_  
_ apricot – taste this summer’s harvest_  
_ passion fruit – bring passion to your afternoon tea (our Lord died to bring you this jam)_  
  
_ Variety of cakes: our famous cheesecake, pecan pie, old-fashioned apple pie, chocolate / raspberry cake, lemon meringue, puff pastries_  
  
_ Take your pick from our wide selection of teas from all over the world_

2007

Every morning, the people on the British island awoke to drink a cup of coffee or strong tea. During the day, they would replenish their caffeine with more cups of tea, and when the sun started to sink, they would move on to cocoa. Or more tea. Or, in the weekends, to beer. 

Angels and anthropologists alike had made note of this behaviour at least one hundred years ago. Apart from a few difficult years, in which coffee, tea and cocoa were all very sparse and not easy to obtain, nothing had been able to change the habits of the British people. Aziraphale, an anglophile as he was, was no different. His celestial body had no need for caffeine. As soon as he woke, he was ready to go for the remainder of the day, no matter what it would bring. As with most things he did, he drank his coffee and tea and cocoa simply because he enjoyed them. The beverages all had their own distinct charm. As he did almost every early morning, the third day of December, 2007, he sank deep into his comfortable chair with a cup of coffee. He had purchased the beans at a nearby shop. He liked doing his shopping there mostly because of the very friendly bearded owner, who was well-versed in all things coffee and had advised him a great deal of blends over the years. Anyone who took one look at the shop would know that it was an overpriced hipster place. Aziraphale was unaware of most trends, and didn't mind what the people on the street thought of him, anyway. He liked the guy and he liked his beard, so he had become a frequent customer.   
He took a sip, made it last. The first taste was always the best. Just as his mind wandered off, making up a mental shopping list as well as an an excuse to go to his favourite coffee shop again, there was a sound at the front door. A thud. Aziraphale hurried to the door, afraid that another one of his dissatisfied customers had shown up again to complain that he didn't stick to the business hours on the window - yes, yes, he really should do something about that - but instead, he found a package on the doormat. It had been small enough to be pushed through the mailbox, but it couldn't have been easy. 

"I should tip the mailman soon," he said to himself as he picked up the package. "The Christmas spirit is there for all. Especially for mailmen."

Moving his coffee to the dining table, he sat down to inspect the delivery. It was packed in plain wrapping paper, all crumpled. Around it was a thin rope, bound very tightly. Aziraphale made an attempt, but untying it was completely impossible. The rope's fibers were sharp and pricked his fingers. He stopped trying and got up to get a pair of scissors. 

"What on earth is that made of?" he mumbled as he went through the kitchen drawers. "Where did you find it?"

His collection of their correspondence had been piling up the past ten years. Everything was neatly organised in his study. Neatly organised for as far as Crowley's irregular, disorderly letters allowed. Aziraphale wrote him back as soon as he could, within the week, almost without fail, but in return, he never knew when he would get a reply. Or even a sign of life. Of course, he was aware of Crowley's enormous number of odd jobs all around the world, and he was also aware of his work ethic and how he spent about sixty percent of his time hiding from his peers. Obviously, he would not always be able to respond. Obviously, he couldn't always be in Norway. Still, Aziraphale would be lying if he said it had never worried him. Waiting for Crowley had become a part of his life, a part of his daily routine, like his cup of coffee in the morning and his cup of cocoa after nine PM. He was always there in the back of his mind, regardless of his absence. 

His faithful nature had helped him through the long periods of no contact. Whenever he lay awake, wondering if he had said or done something wrong, wondering about that night in 1997, he told himself that Crowley knew what he was doing, and that no matter what he wanted, himself, he had to wait for him. Whatever will be, will be, and all that jazz.

He had always been rewarded for his patience.

One of his bookshelves exclusively held Crowley's letters. They had piled up over the years. The letters were in chronological order. The various gifts and memorabilia he had received were sorted as much as possible. 

Once in a while, and every time the mailman brought him a new message, he would reread everything on that shelf. Starting with the first, ending with the last. 

He had packed his bags and left Portugal earlier in the year than he had planned to do. He had stuck around for Augusto, if he was totally honest. He had been at his restaurant a couple of times and they had had long conversations each time.  
Augusto and Nadia had decided to call it quits in the beginning of May. It had been a peaceful breakup, because the fights and cold shoulders had all already happened before. Both of them were simply over it and were longing to leave it all behind them. Augusto had felt bad about it, of course, but Aziraphale was convinced that letting Nadia go would be the best way to love and support her at this time in their lives. He liked to believe that Augusto eventually agreed. But maybe it would take some more time for him to come to terms with it.  
Once, while he was travelling by train, he had read in a magazine that grief often lasts half as long as the relationship one had with the person who is gone. This was not only true for a life that has ended, but also for relationships that have ended. While Aziraphale’s concept of time was very different than that of a mortal person, he felt that he could understand the base of what was being said. It was a difficult thing to imagine for him, and a heavy thing to contemplate. Realising what it must be like to be mortal was something he still had not gotten used to.

Back in London, it had taken him some time to get adjusted to his normal life again. With pain in his heart, he had had to accept that the things he had enjoyed very much before had lost some of their splendour. He had stayed in most of the summer, hiding behind stacks of books, since he found that reading took his mind off of things. His customers weren't happy, but he only opened the shop when he felt like it. Anything more would have been too much.   
The first thing he had done was write to the Nordic address on the smudged business card. He had held it off, not quite understanding his own reasons. He had wanted to wait until he had returned to his familiar surroundings, thinking that a change of environment would, perhaps, alter his feelings. He had wanted to wait and see if he still want to write him when he got back, as if what had happened wasn’t within him, as if he didn’t carry it around with him all the time, wherever he went. The moment he stepped inside, he knew it had been foolish to think this way.  
His suitcases were still in the hall, but this couldn’t wait. Picking up his gilded fountain pen, he sat in his study for a long time, not knowing how to begin. How do you start a conversation when you want to tell the recipient _everything_?

_“My dear friend,_

_London is rainy. I expect this drizzle will continue for at least a week. It really makes one appreciate the Atlantic coast. It seems an eternity ago, does it not?_  
_ I pray you are well. I do not know where you are. Wherever you may be, know that I am thinking of you. (But I believe you are aware.)_  
_ Please, when you find this letter, answer it, if you find the time. I will enclose my address. It is a bookstore, but I mostly use it as a personal library. You are, of course, welcome to purchase a book, though, if you are interested. Feel free to stop by any time you like. I am not planning on going anywhere._

_P .S. Did you hear about the thirty-nine good people who took their own lives a few days prior to our meeting? It appears that the comet was not the harbinger of exclusively good fortune, after all. You would not have anything to do with it, would you?”_

When the leaves had coloured and started to fall, he had received the first letter. He hadn't even noticed it in the pile of other mail on the doormat. When he sat down to finally dive into his taxes, a week later, it dropped on the floor; a small, brown envelope with a wax seal on its back. If It even was wax. It looked more like dried blood. He opened it, carefully, releasing a heap of sand on his tablecloth. He rubbed some of it between his fingers. The grains were very fine. He knew what it was before he read the note.

"There's still sand in my shoes. What about yours?  
P.S. Nothing ever is all good. But I promise you I had nothing to do with the suicide cult thing. Those good people thought that up all by themselves."

That was all. 

Later, there had been cut-out newspaper articles about things that had happened in greater London that people called ‘miraculous’ or ‘inexplicable’. Cats turning up on their owner’s doorsteps seven years after having gone missing. Some poor child surviving a fall from a hot air balloon. That kind of article. Crowley had commented: “Your work?”  
He had sent him photographs of empty fields with old tombstones, creepy-looking manors, cornfields in the twilight, writing that he was there for business. And a picture of the clouds, somewhere in a mountainous area Aziraphale did not recognise. “Thought I saw you in the clouds today. You are not on the picture.”

He had received tiny wooden statues of Nordic folk creatures. Trolls, harpies. A rather powerful pagan symbol tied to a necklace Crowley must have known Aziraphale could never wear. Dried flowers: purple, dark blue, deep red. Maple leaves. Pine cones. Tiny clues about his whereabouts, but never enough to give them away. Once, he had received a CD – _Spirit of Eden. _“Thought you might like this” was the message. And he did.  
Crowley was brief; his letters were always short, written in a sloppy hand with something that looked like charcoal, but might just have been scratched onto the paper with his fingernails. Anyone else who would have penned letters as extensive and meticulously worded like Aziraphale’s would have thought his response lackluster, bordering on rude. Not this angel.

The scissors had trouble with the rope, but after a couple of tries Aziraphale managed to cut through it. The wrapping paper was folded in a complicated manner, without any tape. Crowley was good at that.   
Inside the wrapping paper were a weird-looking puppet with red hair and a few pieces of paper.

A tarot card was lying on top. ‘XIV - ART’, it said. It pictured an lady with two faces, pouring blue liquid and things that looked like red lightning bolts into some sort of brew. On its sides were a blue lion and a red eagle.

Underneath it was a menu. It featured some pretty amazing pictures of scones and a selection of cakes, tastefully arranged. Turning it over in his hands, Aziraphale gathered that it was from a bakery not far from his part of the city.  
Crowley’s letter was last. Shaking his head at his own sentimentality, he gently touched the paper with his fingertips.  
“I can’t help it,” he whispered. “It’s been thirteen months.”

“Azzie

Chances are that we are both in London when you get this…”  
  
It felt like a punch to his stomach. Was he serious? He grabbed the wrapping paper, checking the backside for its origin. No return address; Crowley’s letters never mentioned anything, for safety’s sake. But the postmark indicated that yes, this mail had been sorted not far from where he was.

“…I found a place you might like. Will you let me treat you? Consider it payback for those glazed donut things I stole from you ten years ago. I was thinking Wednesday the 12th. It makes sense from a numerological point of view. Please take the pin out of the voodoo doll if you agree and I will knock your door on 15:18.”

The weird redhead puppet had a pin stuck in its left foot. It went right through it. Even though the puppet was made out of what felt like sheep wool, the pin looked painful and Aziraphale felt sorry for it. He pulled it out of its little foot without a second’s hesitation. After realising that nothing imminent was about to happen, he took off his reading glasses and listened to the pigeons on the window sill upstairs.  
“You could’ve just called me,” he spoke out loud. Hopefully, it hadn’t hurt too badly.

On the morning of the 12th, Aziraphale got up late, around nine-thirty. This was because he had been lying awake for hours. He followed his daily routine like a good boy, but it was very strange to step out the door for groceries knowing that his demon pen pal was around here, somewhere. He liked to believe he could sense his presence, but it was probably nothing more than a superstition.  
Icy rain began to pour down around noon. When it stopped, there were only about forty minutes to go before the agreed time. No time for preparations. Besides, he didn’t have a clue what he should prepare. The only things he did was run a comb through his curls and change into a different suit. Neither of the actions made a significant change to his appearance (no comb in the world was a true match for his stubborn curls and he owned many similar suits). There was nothing left to do but wait. He sat down in his comfortable chair, finding no comfort, fidgeting until he heard a bang at the door. He opened it. It was Crowley. He thanked the Almighty for not sending a solicitor or collector his way. They were welcome, always, but not now.

He was obviously taken aback. Just as Aziraphale was. It had been so long.

Too long, thought Aziraphale. Too long, said Crowley’s eyes.

“’Ello,” Crawley broke their silence.  
“Good day,” Aziraphale answered.

“Good to see you.” Crowley moved his weight from one long, thin leg to the other. They were dressed in tight, black jeans. His hair was shorter than before and seemed even redder than Aziraphale remembered. He also liked his shoes. His entire appearance pleased him. It almost made him forgot that he was waiting for him to invite him in.  
“Come in, if you like.”  
Crowley slithered over the doorstep, after him, into the rooms he had spent the majority of his time, this century and the last.  
“Would you like some tea?”  
“Nah, I’m good. But if you want some, that is fine.”  
“Did you discuss a table at a certain time?”  
“I did not. But I have an inclination that they will have space for us.” Crowley smiled in his wicked way. Aziraphale didn’t ask what tricks he pulled to get the things he wanted. He liked his tricks far more than he liked his own morals. _I am not a very good angel, am I? _

Crowley browsed through Aziraphale’s shop, reading some titles from their backs, his head tilted to one side. He laid his hand on a large compendium on occultism in the British Isles.  
“This book is one of mine,” he grinned.  
“I suspected as much.”  
“If Heaven ever comes here to check on you, you will be in so much trouble.”

“But they never come here.”  
“If they ever find this…” Crowley held up a very worn and weathered book with a black cover. It was a collection of Aleister Crowley’s works with commentary from multiple biographers. Crowley read the inside cover with interest, slightly self-absorbed as he was. Aziraphale knew what he was reading, because he had read it himself, and practically knew the first few paragraphs by heart. They told of drug experiments, satanism, homosexuality, black magic, spelt as it was with an additional ‘k’ at the end, and orgies. It had made Aziraphale blush up to his ears, but it made Crowley roar with laughter.  
“I can tell you that not _all _of this is untrue.” He put the book back on the shelf where he had found it. “You have a nice shop, but let’s go. There’s a cream tea waiting just for you.”

It was four stops by bus. They took it, and not Crowley’s car, because he was keeping a low profile. Aziraphale questioned the efficacy of his measures and feared that both Heaven and Hell were sophisticated enough to locate the two of them immediately if they so wished. He didn’t see any signs that they were on them, though. No sudden bursts of sunlight breaking through the heavy clouds, no yellow eyes staring at them from the bushes in dark gardens. Everything was as it always was.

  
“This looks like a nice place,” Aziraphale commented, standing outside the shop. The displays were laden with cakes. Almond flakes, coconut chips, cinnamon, frosting in all colours.

“I thought of you when I walked past it. Reviews are good. What would you like?”  
“Everything,” Aziraphale told him the truth. “But we can come back again.”  
“Oh, they do take-out service, as well. You can take home as much as you want.”  
Aziraphale cast him a look. “They do not.”  
“No, they do not. So, you can take home as much as you want.”  
“Crowley, if you want to treat me you are going to have to pay the good people.”  
The demon chuckled happily. “Lecture me from your high horse, will you?”  
“I will, if you keep asking for it.”  
“I have missed you,” Crowley sighed. “So much.”  
“And I have missed you.”

“Come on. I _am_ going to get you a cream tea, and I don’t care how.”

Crowley had ordered one scone for each of them and a royal serving of thick clotted cream. The restaurant offered three different flavours of jam: apricot, strawberry and passionfruit; plus lemon curd. Aziraphale was delighted. He took his time, letting Crowley pour him a cup of tea, waiting patiently for it to have cooled down enough to take a few sips. After the taste test, he moved to the scone. He handled the little spoons and butter knives masterfully. He covered the heavy pieces of sweet bread in cream, not holding back. He carefully broke them into parts, divided the jams; created a collection of miniature scones, each with their own flavor.  
“Now, which one goes first…” he mumbled to his creation, and looked over to Crowley, the crumbs on his chin and the empty plate in front of him.  
“What did you do?” he yelled, almost actually angry with him.  
“They really are great,” Crowley said, chewing, his mouth full of scone. “Glad I found this bakery.”  
“You are awful.”  
“Yes, but I am also your date.”  
Aziraphale scoffed at him and the smirk on his face, pretending to devote all his attention to the scones. They were so wonderful that he didn’t even need to pretend after a few bites. Crowley watched him eat in silence, his face speaking volumes about the joy he took from it. It has to be said that it is very challenging to not derive joy from seeing Aziraphale eat scones, and that goes for anyone, really. They occupied his whole mind. It was only after he had finished the last crumb on his plate that he was able to look at Crowley again.

“Are you up for seconds?” the demon suggested. “The internet says their cheesecake is the stuff of legends.”  
“I am interested, then. But we would need a refill of this lovely blend, too. Or another one, perhaps…”  
“Whatever you like, Azzie.”

They finished another pot of tea, a different kind from the last. It was sweet, like vanilla, with tiny rose petals floating between the dark green tea leaves. The cheesecake was soft, filling, and hit that exact spot between sweetness and creaminess. It was no match for Aziraphale’s stomach, though, who somehow found room for some chocolate cake with raspberry glazing and a small slice of lemon meringue. When their plates were empty once again, Crowley walked to the counter to pay. As he did so, Aziraphale noted a small limp in his step.  
“Want to take a walk?” he asked when he returned to the table.

“Of course,” Aziraphale got up from his chair, “but please, only if it does not cause you pain.”  
“Oh, this… It’s nothing. I did it to myself, you know.”  
“I believe I had at least something to do with it.”  
“It was the quickest way to get your answer. And it’s a good kind of pain.”

They walked out the door and soon left the pavement to a path flanked by rows of trees, leading to a neighbourhood park. They had spent a considerable amount of time stuffing themselves with baked goods. Aziraphale’s wrist watch showed that it was 18:10. The demon was still limping.

“Are you positive that you are alright?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.”  
“Maybe you should sit down for a minute. The path is a bit slippery.”

“If you insist.”  
The night had come quickly. The moon was hidden behind the thick, gray clouds. It was far too cold for regular folk to be out in the park this time of day, and it was definitely too cold to sit down on one of the park benches. The day had been damp, misty and hovering around the freezing point. After hours in these conditions, the bench felt even colder than the air around it. The angel and demon did not mind; they hardly even noticed.

“Better?”  
“No difference.”

Crowley had draped himself over more than two-thirds of the bench, leaving only a narrow edge for Aziraphale. He casually laid his arm on the backrest, behind the angel, taking a gamble that nobody had ever pulled this move on Aziraphale. He was right.

“Hm. You are warm,” Aziraphale remarked. His breath turned into a little white cloud the moment it left his mouth. Crowley’s created a lot more steam in comparison.  
“I am.”  
Aziraphale turned to face him. He seemed to be asking for Crowley’s lead, unsure of himself, hesitant. But he knew he had to do this. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable. He reached out his hand. Crowley took it. The electric shock that caused was intense enough to create actual visible sparks. This was unsurprising; it is a rule of nature that hot air and cold air create static energy when they collide.

“Wow,” Crowley whispered.

“You really are very warm.”  
The angel moved his hands upward, tracing Crowley’s arms, his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks. When he kissed him he learned that his skin smelt of scorched earth and burnt out matches. Crowley found that his angel mostly smelt like fresh peaches, straight from the tree, ready to eat.

“I think there’s still some sugar on your lips.”  
Aziraphale looked at him, his eyes all big and round and blue in his blushing face. “Oh?”  
Crowley pressed his lips to his and licked them. It had been an excuse, but they really did taste like cake frosting. Aziraphale gave in to him and opened his mouth, anyway.

The old, worn out park bench under the large beech tree may have spent the past ten years being rudely overlooked by the passers-by, but he could pride himself on having accommodated the first tongue kiss between an angel and a demon in the whole history of earth. Any objective observer would confirm it. It took precisely fourteen minutes before they stopped, and even then, it was only to catch their breaths for more.

The streets had never been this deserted. The weather had only gotten worse. The drizzle had returned, turning the pavement into death hazards. Anyone who had peeked through his or her curtains that evening around seven PM reconsidered stepping out. Family visitations were postponed. Necessary repairs to cars and bicycles were neglected. The only motorised vehicles passing Crowley and Aziraphale were ambulances and the occasional cab.

“How is your foot?”  
“It’s fine.”  
“Come here.” Aziraphale spread his arms.  
He had half expected the demon to feel insulted, belittled, made fun of; but no: he jumped in his arms without reservations and let the angel carry him. Memories came rushing back to him, memories of heaven, of the world’s early days. He wasn’t carrying him in his arms for the first time.  
“Do you remember?” Aziraphale whispered in his ear.  
“Oh, I do. Before I fell.”  
“You broke my heart that day.”  
“Best decision I ever made.”  
“Well, I have to say…” Aziraphale gently stroked the demon’s hair. “…it really suits you.”

“I know.”  
“If you could tell me where to go?”  
“Left, here.”  
Aziraphale hovered a few feet above the rapidly forming layer of ice on the pavement and moved forward with a few smooth flaps of his snow white wings.  
They floated through the darkness, silently. Through the streets and past the brick houses that used to be familiar to Aziraphale, but seemed different now. Most of the curtains were closed. Everyone was either at the dining table or huddled around the fireplace, or the television. Aziraphale wasn’t worried that they would be spotted by anyone. He checked every now and then, whenever they turned a corner, but he didn’t meet any curious eyes. He didn’t notice the eyes of eleven-year old Timothy Merton, on the second floor, sitting in the windowsill of his room. He had been trying to read a comic book, but he often lost his focus. At school, his teacher would have noticed his thoughts drifting off and would have said something – he was always wondering what it was, what he did that gave it away to her.  
There was a bright white speck in the corner of his eye. When he looked over, he saw a man with white wings on his back, carrying some redhead emo kid in his arms.  
“Why is he wearing sunglasses?” Timothy wondered, and pressed his forehead to the glass to get a better look. They passed below him, oblivious to his presence. Now that they were close, it became clear to him that the guy with the wings was not, in fact, wearing some sort of costume. The wings were real, and he was _using them_. He was flying. Opening his eyes as far as he could, trying not to miss a single moment, Timothy stared at them as they took a turn to the left at the end of his street. He only blinked again once they were out of sight.  
  
A wave of incense washed over Aziraphale when he stepped over Crowley's doorstep.   
"I'll open the balcony doors," Crowley snickered at his coughs. "Sorry."  
"I never expected a demon to recreate a Catholic church in his living quarters."  
"Oh, but this is different! I brought all of this from Buddhist monasteries," Crowley pointed at a large collection of incense and burners. "Their stuff is the best, no competition."  
Fresh, freezing air rolled into the room as Crowley opened the doors to his tiny balcony. Having regained his breath, Aziraphale looked around. 

"Welcome to my den of sins." Crowley spread his arms and did a little twirl.

"That is one suitable word for it."

The room was covered with tapestries. They were on the floor and on the walls. There were candles, so many candles; on the window sills, on small coffee tables and cabinets, next to the sink, on the bookshelves. Crowley lit them by simply walking past them. Their humble radiance showed occultist books, decks of tarot cards and all sorts of strange objects Aziraphale had no doubt were attributes to ungodly rituals. 

"Your rooms look like that 'new age' bookshop on the corner of my street."  
"Your competitor?"  
"It's not really a competitor if they have already won."

"Poor Azzie," Crowley cooed. "Let me take your coat. And can I pour you some wine?" 

Since he didn't really want to touch any of the stuff lying around in Crowley's personal hellhole, Aziraphale didn’t take a closer look at anything and instead sat down on the edge of the couch. Crowley set two wineglasses and a dusty, very old-looking bottle on the table and dropped himself next to him. He had taken off his glasses. Looking into his uncovered serpent eyes made Aziraphale's stomach tingle. They wanted to pin him down and petrify him like prey, and they would have done so with any human being, easily. But their power did nothing to an angel. It slid off Aziraphale like water off a duck's feather, leaving only its intention. The intention being something along the lines of "I want to eat you". 

"Excuse me. I shouldn't stare," Crowley mumbled and started to work on opening the bottle. It looked like no easy task.

"Shall I help?"  
"No. I'll manage, it's just ancient. Someone gave this to me. It's at least two hundred years old."  
"Crowley, did you steal this bottle?"  
"You will never know." The cork was out and Crowley poured two glasses. "Don't tell me you're going to abstain out of _principle_."

"Oh well, now that it is standing here right in front of me..."

"I thought as much." Crowley clinked his glass to Aziraphale's.  
"You are corrupting me," he protested very mildly, taking a sip. It was full, deep, and obviously very strong. 

"It won't work, baby. I know that. But a demon can try."

Desperate to stop his stomach from tickling at every word his friend said, Aziraphale tried to change the subject. "Tell me where you have been all of this time?"

Crowley made a wide gesture. "Where _haven't _I been."  
"If that question will make for a shorter answer, I will take it."  
"Well. Something happened on April 1st, 1997. You might recall a certain celestial body showing up..."  
"It was lovely," Aziraphale reminisced.   
"It sure as hell was. You might also recall that the gateways that guard... the natural order of things, so to speak, were wide open that night."  
"Apparently so."  
"You are getting red in the face," Crowley grinned. "Anyway. Those gateways I was talking about. It was kind of a big deal. Some folks noticed. Some folks up above, and some folks down below, alike. Do you remember when we said goodbye?"  
Aziraphale nodded. He had ruminated on those few minutes before dawn for many, many nights.  
“I knew they were watching. So I tried to be casual. You probably thought I was getting cold feet, or something.”  
“I did. You are a good actor.”  
“I won’t lie about it, I was a bit shaken, after what you had done,” Crowley admitted. “It had never happened to me before. But that is why I gave you my card. I had a feeling I wouldn’t get another chance. They were getting closer.”

"Nothing ever is private, is it?" 

"Exactly. This- whatever this is- is between you and me. Exclusively. I tried to tell them, but naturally they didn't much care for it. So, I got banned."  
"By whom?"  
"Heaven."  
"But... I'm sorry, I do not see their point. Why did they leave me alone, then?"  
"Honey, look at me..." Crowley flicked his fingers, creating two little lighter flames. "I am the fallen angel here. They were never going to punish you, because they could punish me. That's what they like, don't they? That's what gets them going. You know them better than I do."  
Aziraphale took a deep breath, feeling anger rise inside of him. It was an unfamiliar feeling to him, and he didn't like it. "What was their sentence?"  
"They locked me up for a while. Wasn’t so terrible, just boring. In the meantime, they gave you some sort of blessing. A demon repellent. Meaning that I couldn't see you. I couldn't even be in the same country as you. I got around that by writing you – but whenever I tried to tell you about their blessing my pen went dry. Or my pencil broke. Or the paper would repel the ink. I dropped you some clues about where I was but I wasn’t expecting you to find me. Guessed they hadn’t filled you in about any of it. Had they?”  
Aziraphale shook his head. “If I had known…”  
“It’s alright. Anyway. After they were done with their big ritual, they released me. Well, threw me off a cloud somewhere above the Gobi desert. Saying, 'don't worry, hell spawn, you'll be alright, skilled as you are at falling'."

"Did they hurt you?"  
"Nothing I couldn't walk off."

"But we met again. What changed?"  
Crowley shrugged. "To be honest with you, I don't know. I was in Ireland the past couple of months and I crossed the water to Wales, to see what would happen. Nothing happened. Thought it might be safe again; turns out it is. Those angel blessings aren't exactly everlasting, are they?"  
"They can be," Aziraphale muttered, his index finger to his lips, trying to understand what had happened. "I think they expected you to give up. To forget it. After ten years."  
Crowley laughed, full of disdain. "They really are thick, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are."

"They are _your_ kin, Azzie."  
"I want nothing whatsoever to do with them. They believe that demons cannot possess redeeming qualities. That you," he shook his head at this monumental stupidity, "are not capable of anything positive."  
"Well, are they completely wrong?"  
"They are when it comes to me."

"Us," Crowley corrected him, resting his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"Yes, us."

They were silent for some time, feeling their essences flow together until they couldn't tell which was whose. 

"I wonder if they are aware that we are together now."  
"Possibly. I mean, it's so much worse now than it was then."  
"In their divine wisdom, all they managed to do was reinforce it."  
"They can't change any of it. They can't control it. I know I can't."  
"I'm going to say something that may very well be sacrilegious," Aziraphale announced. 

"Ooh, are you? This should be good."  
"I think that my preference for you is part of my nature. And I suspect that it is the same for you. Meaning: we were created like this. And when we are together, all that we are doing is honour our respective natures, subsequently honouring creation."

Crowley chuckled. "You are trying to intellectualise something that's really simple. I want to be with you because I'm in love with you. I'm acting out of my own volition."  
"But where did that volition come from?"  
"You are such an angel," Crowley said happily. 

"Sorry."  
"No, don't apologise, it's great. It's exactly why I like you."  
"I want to kiss you again."  
"Feel free."

Crowley owned a very large standing clock with intricate figures on them. Spirals, Celtic symbolism, wooden cut-outs of bats. The pendulum – no doubt made from gold of dubious origin – was decorated with a pentagram. Aziraphale didn’t mind the symbols looking down upon him one bit, as long as they allowed him and his mate to make out. Rolling on the couch, squeezing each other tightly, losing all sense of time. Crowley had started biting him, very softly, in his neck and shoulders. He loved it, so he let him bite to his heart’s content. Until the clock hit twelve. Aziraphale looked up, alarmed.  
“Oh, what is it,” Crowley whined, trying to pull him back onto him.  
“It’s midnight.”  
“So? Stay the night.”

Crowley’s pupils were huge, pitch black pools in the darkness. His carefully coiffured hair was in disarray after hours of sweet angel cuddling. In this moment, he was more desirable to Aziraphale than marzipan-covered wedding cake. But he shook his head. “I cannot.”  
Crowley did not protest any further. He looked at him, trying to read his expression.  
“Something wrong?”  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
“Can I help?”  
“No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine.”  
“Sure?”  
“Yes, sure. I just… I need to go back home.”  
“Whatever you want.” Crowley let him go. Rummaging beneath the couch, he found a small object, and pressed it into Aziraphale’s hand. “To protect you on the way.”  
It was an acorn.  
“This grants protection?”  
“It does. There is a witches’ coven where I stayed in Norway. They gave me this to pass through the woods safely.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Don’t feel bad. Take your time.” Crowley’s lips curved upwards into an impish smile. “But call me, would you?” He shoved a small piece of paper in Aziraphale’s breast pocket. “My new business card.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...my craving for scones was almost as intense as my need to have these two make out.  
I have now indulged in both cravings and I am very pleased.
> 
> *The tarot card described comes from the Thoth-Crowley deck (obviously). The various interpretations online made me think of this ship so damn much I had to include it. It is basically a symbol for alchemy: melting the self to merge with another and becoming something else, together, in this process. Whew... butterflies just thinking about it.  
*Haha, I made them fly...


	5. Outside the earth's atmosphere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale retreats to his rooms after his date with Crowley, dazed and delighted. He needs some time alone. Not too much time alone, however. Once the alchemy starts working its magic, it longs to complete the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Timothy Merton, by the way, and his dad.  
This was, again, so much fun to write.

_Tylluan wen_

_Distilled and matured in oak barrels in Frongogh, Wales, 1899_

It was only when he got back out on the streets when he realised how cold it was. Sliding the acorn in his pocket, he looked up at Crowley's windows. He heard the balcony doors being shut and a swarm of bats flew out into the night. He tested the pavement and found it was practically frozen over. He decided to hover instead of walk home. There wasn't a soul around who would see it.

There was, however, a soul who saw it. 

Eleven-year old Timothy Merton, who lived with his dad only one street away from Crowley's den. The same eleven-year old Timothy who had clearly seen a guy with white wings, carrying around some goth weirdo, at least two feet from the ground, some hours ago. He was still up. He knew it was past midnight and he knew that school would be rough tomorrow. But he hadn't been able to fall asleep long enough and he kept waking up. He knew what his dad would say if he told him he couldn't sleep.  
"It's because of all those scary books you've been reading," he mimicked his father's voice and made a face. It wasn't that. Timothy had read so many spooky stories from the library that nothing really creeped him out anymore. Nothing in _books_, at least. It was something else to see a supernatural creature out in the streets. He guessed it wasn't just some supernatural creature. It may very well have been an angel. Timothy thought of his grandmother and her house. Statues of saints and angels on every table. Her stories about them. Her disappointment that his dad had never made Timothy go to Sunday school, had never even bought him a children's Bible. In general, Timothy was happy his dad had never done these things. In his opinion, it was all a load of crap. Whenever his grandmother went on and on about some silly story about arcs and golems and magically healed diseases, he pretended to listen, but he knew that he liked even the dumbest Goosebumps story far better than whatever she was rambling about. 

His dad had had to go to help his sister, Timothy's aunt, to get to the hospital. Timothy had stayed at his grandma's place that night. 

"How was it?" his dad had asked him when he picked him up, around half past eight.

"Okay, I guess," Timothy mumbled, staring out the car window.

"What did you have for dinner?"  
"Pancakes."  
"Sounds delicious. They always were nice."  
"Grandma told me I needed to say more prayers," Timothy blurted out. Only after he had said it he realised it may not be a very nice thing to do to just repeat everything his grandmother had said to his dad. But Timothy loved his dad more than anyone in the world, and when something bothered him, he couldn't help but run his mouth and tell him.

"Did she?" his father grumbled. "She's incorrigible."  
"What?"  
"You see, I asked her to stop talking to you about religion all the time. If you want to believe anything," he looked over to Timothy, "you have to choose to do so yourself. When you're ready. Not because some old lady told you you _had_ to."  
"Yeah, sounds reasonable."  
"But she didn't listen, did she?"  
Timothy shook his head. "Nope. She told me I had to pray for aunt Jade. She said that she needed our help." He glanced at his father's face. It looked too serious for his liking, and it felt like a heavy weight was dropped in his tummy.  
"She needs the doctor's help," his father sighed. "I don't think prayers will do any good. They never do, if you ask me."  
"Well, she will light a candle tonight, too."  
"Did she tell you an angel would show up to help?"  
"Yeah."

"It's kind of her that she tries to help. But you really don't have to say any prayers, Timothy. We can't do anything. That's not nice, it's no fun, but I'm afraid it's true. You could send her a card, or a drawing, if you like."  
Timothy nodded in agreement. In a small voice, he asked: "So aunt Jade is really sick, huh?"  
His father sighed again. Not a good sign. "She is. I hope she'll be alright, but nobody knows what will happen. Nothing left to do but wait."  
  
Taking all of this into account, it was hardly surprising that Timothy couldn't sleep. He had caught a glimpse of someone who may very well have been a real angel, and he was worried about his aunt. Should I do something? he thought, but remembered his dad's words, and decided not to. But it felt so useless to just lay in bed and do nothing. Even if praying didn't do anything, at least he would have done something. His internal debate went on and on, without an answer. It made Timothy even more tired than he already was. At his wit's end, he got out of bed and peeked outside his window. Everything was quiet and empty. Not a single light was on in his street. Not even Gary's, who lived in the house across from Timothy. He was seventeen and stayed up almost every single night to play video games. He had told Timothy he was a professional gamer, and that he needed to stay up late to 'play against the Americans', but Timothy didn't believe him.

He yawned deeply, longing for sleep, when he noticed a white spot at the end of the street. It became bigger. Timothy stopped yawning midway, which sucked, to take a better look. It looked like that angel he had seen earlier. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him, it was the same guy: goofy suit, white curls, snow white wings with a span of about two yards at the very least. Two things were different: one, he was going the other way now, and two, he wasn't carrying the goth guy in his arms this time. He floated above the ground. Timothy checked twice; he really did float, still. When he came closer Timothy hid behind the curtain. The angel didn't notice him as he passed Timothy's house. He didn't seem to notice anything, really. Timothy stared at him until he went around the corner and disappeared from sight.

Was this a sign? Was this some message from God or whatever, to start believing his grandmother?  
"Should I pray?" Timothy whispered, feeling a bit dizzy from it all. He sat down in front of his bed, on his knees, and folded his hands in front of his chest. It felt weird. He didn't know what to say. 

"Hello," he said. "My name is Timothy... I.. think I just saw an angel..." 

Not knowing who to address or what to ask for, he bit his lip and shook his head. "No, this is dumb." He got up again and crawled under his blanket. 

Somewhere up above, the angels of Heaven were very frustrated with little Timothy Merton. They had almost received fresh intel on Aziraphale's whereabouts. _Almost_.

"Kids these days," Uriel hissed and threw her headset on her desk. '_Connection lost_', her screen said. "They just aren't getting a proper education anymore."  
Perhaps that was true. It was a matter of opinion, surely. It is also a possibility that the little cursed acorn had had some part in it. But there is no way of finding that out now. And Aziraphale hadn't noticed any of it. He had no brain capacity at that time for anything more than getting back home.

The first thing he did was lock the door behind him. He stumbled past the bookshelves, climbing the stairs to his modest bedroom. He checked for signs of divine intervention, but found none. He hoped with all his heart that they weren't on to him, weren't on to him and Crowley. He wouldn't be able to bear it if they would take him away again. This dependency was foreign to him. It was not becoming of an angel. He knew that, and he was scared. But he strongly suspected there was nothing he could do.

He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, trying to find a connection with the Almighty. Unlike regular human beings, his line was direct; no other angels were needed to access all the wisdom he was looking for. He concentrated, all his attention directed to the all-encompassing truth, the unity of the cosmos. No response. 

Terrified that he may have been shut out already, Aziraphale jumped back to his feet, his knees shaking. "Forgive me," he cried. "Forgive me my sacrilege, forgive me my sinful heart, my bottomless appetite... But don't ask me to let him go. Please, please, please."

Just when he felt like he was about to lose his mind, he remembered that he had a cursed object on him. It all went much better after he had taken the tiny acorn out of his pocket and wrapped it in one of his favourite handkerchiefs. He bypassed Heaven and found the connection he was looking for in an instant.

Aziraphale prayed as long as he could. He prayed until his exhaustion got the better of him. He looked at his watch. 03:33 AM. His head was a mess; thoughts were spinning and spinning and spinning, demanding his attention. Attention that he couldn't give. He was done for today.

"Please tell me I was right about this," was the last thing he asked, in his bed, lying on his back. And he believed he heard an answer, very faintly, somewhere, somewhere so remote he would never be able to reach it. The answer was that he was _not wrong_. 

"Thank you," he exhaled. Whatever it meant, he would take it. 

The pigeons on the windowsill brought him back to reality. They were all huddled up near his window as it was slightly warmer there than elsewhere. Aziraphale was in bliss as he slowly gathered his thoughts while his nocturnal musings faded. 

"Crowley," he said to himself. Articulating the letters of his name in the knowledge that he was close made him smile involuntarily. Feeling like taking it slow today, he threw on his dressing gown and walked downstairs to get some of his special coffee blend. It was pretty chilly in his rooms, but he hardly felt it. With a full mug of hot coffee and today's newspapers he sat down at his dining table. One of the papers had a feature on extravagant Christmas decorations from the United Kingdom. It was the sole article Aziraphale's dazed mind could handle. He would look into the news later today, he decided. He would place today's papers in the newspaper rack and throw yesterday's papers out. And he would rearrange the pile of "fifty percent off" books. And order some of those terrible vampire romance novels that seemed to be popular, according to the paper. Maybe the shop would bring in some profits, finally, if he did that. He was willing to make the concession because the books never seemed to make any pretense that they were anything more than fiction. Something the heap of trash sold at the "Deep Spirit" bookstore down the street would never own up to.

He took a deep breath and stared into his empty coffee mug. Then he got up to get dressed and do all of the work he needed to do. He knew the moment would come when he absolutely _had_ to call Crowley, and he wanted to get all of the odd jobs out of the way before then. Because he was a good boy. The moment came at 13:20 in the afternoon. 

"Hey."  
"Hello," Aziraphale answered, feeling a bit awkward calling him.

"Are you alright?"  
"Yes. Yes, I believe so."

"That's because of that coven's acorn. I really should send them a thank-you note soon."  
"Have you seen any signs... wait, let's not talk on the phone, shall we?"  
"Your place or mine?" he could practically hear his smirk through the phone.  
"Could you come here? If that is not inconvenient."  
"Gladly."

Crowley knocked on his door before two. Despite the cold that persisted from the day before, he wasn't wearing much. Aziraphale wondered, staring at his pale chest, very visible because of the many open buttons, and very low-waist jeans, whether he was doing this for him. He guessed yes, but the train of thought just confused him, so he stopped wondering. The demon was in his arms immediately after he locked the door behind them.

"Hey, sweet tooth," Crowley greeted him.  
"Welcome, again."

"I've been thinking about you all night."  
A confession Aziraphale did not know what to say to. 

"You are so red," Crowley cackled.

"Well... You... are so hot," Aziraphale tried to explain himself.

Crowley threw his hair back in a dramatic swoosh, scattering embers around the stacks of priceless antiquarian volumes. "Thank you. Spent hours on the look. Shall we have a sleepover, tonight, then?" He pressed his nose to Aziraphale's. It was glowing with heat.

"You mean as opposed to yesterday?"  
"Yes." Aziraphale noticed Crowley's hissing became more prominent when he got excited and found it, for lack of a better word, adorable.

"You didn't think it would have been a bit too soon?"  
"Why?" Crowley stared deep in the angel's eyes, trying to pierce right through them. "After all of this time, how could it be even a day too soon?"  
He was right. Aziraphale sensed it deep in his core. There was no point in waiting. No point at all. 

"We didn't spend years waiting just to stop now." Crowley's warm breath was in his ear. It made him light-headed.   
"I don't want to stop," Aziraphale said, softly. "But I don't know how to... proceed."  
"Make love to me," Crowley answered.

"I don't know how we should do that."

"You want it, though, right?"  
"Yes."  
"Azzie, are you a virgin, by any chance?"  
"I am. And there's no need to act all surprised."  
Crowley smiled. "I'm not surprised, no. And it's okay. I don't know how to do it with you, either. It's never been done before, as far as I know."

"No, I believe you are correct."  
"So." He tilted his head to its side. "Wanna write some history?"  
Aziraphale didn't answer. Somehow, he knew what to do. He lifted his demon up in the air and carried him towards the stairs. In his celestial arms, he weighed close to nothing. He climbed to the attic and opened the hatch to the roof. With an elegant jump, he took off, leaving his home behind. 

As it turns out, angels and demons may have a physical manifestation on the Almighty's green earth, but when they are together, they do not hang on to it as much as human beings do. They do not look for, nor long for, physical intimacy so much as they look for spiritual fulfillment. This is why, when Aziraphale and Crowley finally got down to it, it looked a bit different from what they would have done, had they been mortal souls. They were very much into kissing, though.

  
When they were as high up in the air as weather balloons go (they had a really nice view of the atmosphere there), Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale more tightly than before. So tightly it hurt a bit. 

"Look at me," he said. It was then that Aziraphale first noticed the scales on his skin. All of a sudden all the clouds beneath them turned dark, and Crowley turned even darker. In an inexplicable way, Aziraphale was holding both his demonic boyfriend and a giant, black-as-ink constrictor in his arms at the same time. He felt him entering his mind, effortlessly accessing his consciousness. Crowley walked around in his thoughts, his memories, looking at everything he had ever seen, as if he had been by his side all of those times. He felt every emotion Aziraphale had ever lived through. It was an experience that was at once mesmerising and terrifying. It required a very large, inhuman amount of trust, but luckily Aziraphale was glad to grant it. It was very strange when Crowley learned what Aziraphale thought and felt when he was with him, for both of them. It was the most hidden, the most private and personal part any person could find out about somebody else. He couldn't have felt more exposed and naked. It was worse than being stripped bare. But in the end, he was happy that Crowley knew. Happy that he knew it all. 

He didn't startle when he looked at him as he truly was. He didn't flinch when he felt the poisonous sludge biting in his skin. He didn't make a peep, not even when Crowley tightened his grip around his rib cage until he gasped for air. 

"I see you," is all he said. The kiss he planted on the snake's flat nose was a prominent, almost ceremonial gesture. It made Crowley loosen his death grip on him and return to his normal state, out of breath, pressing his face to Aziraphale's shoulder. He left his thoughts, not leaving a trace. The dark clouds changed their shade and scattered a bit. There was thunder in the distance, far below their feet.

"Thank you," he said, his voice muffled against the fabric of Aziraphale's suit. 

"My pleasure."  
Crowley shook his head incredulously at so much courtesy. "Did it hurt?"  
"It's a good kind of pain."

After a few minutes of silent meditation, Crowley hissed: "I want to see you, now."  
Aziraphale had been expecting that request. He took a deep breath and, as he was accustomed to doing, looked above for guidance. He didn't find any, only the darkness of outer space.

"My dearest," he said, "I am going to hurt you."  
Crowley looked up to him. "I can take it."

"I will try to be gentle, but if you really want to see me, there is no other way."  
"I can take it," Crowley repeated, with emphasis. "Show me."

"Alright. But please, don't look at me directly; peek through your eyelashes."  
Feeling a bit nervous that he wouldn't know how to do this anymore (he hadn't done it for a very long time), Aziraphale spread his divine aura. It was as easy and effortless as spreading his arms. Showing one's true nature is something one never forgets; like riding a bike, as the mortals on the earth would say. As he did so, his halo didn't just expand, it became brighter. It continued to become brighter. He felt Crowley cowering in his arms, heard him whimper as his light grew even stronger. The thunder returned. A storm was brewing in the atmosphere beneath them. Aziraphale's light shone upon Crowley, bright like a sun he had gotten far too close to.

"Oh my God," Crowley muttered, a highly unusual thing to say for a demon. It was around that moment that Aziraphale's light was at its peak. Courteously, he followed Crowley's example and took a few careful steps inside his mind, as if he was in a shop full of chinaware. It was dark in there, but he had brought his personal light with him. It exposed many things Crowley had seen, had done. Some of those things were reprehensible, from a moral viewpoint. In fact, a lot of them were. But he had known what he would find. It was already forgiven. He didn't blush at what he saw. Not much, at least. Crowley was sleazy and lazy and sneaky and he loved every bit of him. But seeing himself through Crowley's eyes was something else. He couldn't remember when he had last been this embarrassed. It was, by far, the hardest to accept, to fully understand and allow. Not because of what Crowley felt for him. It was because he hadn't been prepared for the gravity of it; and couldn't quite couple that gravity with the way he saw himself. It was almost unbelievable to him. Almost. He still had a healthily high opinion of himself.

He exhaled, slowly, relaxing his aura, sinking back into his body, retreating from Crowley's mind. He felt that Crowley was still in his arms, clawing his back with his nails, still alive and well. He hadn't actually pulverised him into ashes. The intense relief he got from that realisation was enough to bring him down from his high, back to normal.

"That was me," he said, softly, and slightly embarrassed.

"Azzie," Crowley replied, breathlessly. 

"I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" 

"Just a bit."  
Aziraphale inspected him. His skin was reddish and looked painful.

"Honey..."  
"It's nothing." As he said it, he flinched and gritted his teeth.

Aziraphale wouldn't hear it. He blew a fresh, soothing angel breath in Crowley's face.   
"Oi," Crowley cried, "That's bloody freezing!" But the redness faded, and even though he would never admit it, the pain probably did, as well. 

"There. It should be better, now."  
"Hm."

He pulled his beloved fallen angel closer to his chest, breathing his burnt scent, and closed his eyes. Without effort, without even being really aware of it, they started their descent back to earth.  
It was about that precise moment that all the angels in Heaven felt a sudden itch in their necks, and all the demons of Hell sneezed, collectively. It was certainly unusual, but was it really alarming? Not necessarily, they thought. They all continued their respective good and bad works and tried to forget about it. But hadn’t it been weird to all feel an itch at the same time, as if a little bug had been walking in their necks, all the angels thought? Perhaps they should get it looked at by a healer? Some of them talked to Gabriel about it. He shrugged.

It surely had to mean something when everyone sneezes, all the demons thought? There were always mold colonies or infestations in Hell, but never everywhere at the same time. Should the air vents be checked? Some of them talked to Beelzebub about it, who shrugged, as well. Being confronted with the inexplicable remains a difficult spot to be in, when you are management.

  
Below, on the surface, the people of Britain were startled by freak weather. A blizzard had come crashing down, without warning. It hadn't been on the weather report this morning, that was for sure. Swiftly and mercilessly, the driving snow covered the ground at a breakneck pace. But not just ice crystals were swirling down. In the space between snowflakes, tiny little pieces of glowing ash could be found. They ended up on car windows, staining them when their drivers tried to use the windshield wipers to get them off. They were very visible once the downpour started to really pile up, burning small holes in the blanket of snow, leaving it speckled. 

There was much ado about it, the days that followed. There were insurance claims. There were investigations. There were think pieces in the papers; open letters from readers. Had it been pollution? A factory not taking care of its exhaust pipes and an ensuing cover-up? The bloody government, again, sending chemtrails? Was it just the wind, carrying Icelandic volcano ash, or something? Why would nobody explain what had happened?

Some weather stations searched for answers, tracking the data their weather balloons had sent them. They found that yes, something strange _had_ happened around the time of the snowstorm - an abrupt collision of a high- and a low-pressure area, resulting in a gathering of clouds, creating thunder; and a light, a very bright light, which their systems and algorithms could not satisfactorily explain. They concluded it was probably just light reflecting off a rogue weather balloon. Some decided that it had to have been aliens. Others shrugged and went on with packing their Christmas gifts.

"I can never let you go again," Crowley whispered. "This was... final. In a way. Don't you think so?"  
Aziraphale agreed. There was no coming back from this. He felt as close to Crowley as melted sugar in a cup of hot tea. Even if they wanted to separate, it couldn't be done. Not anymore. 

"How do you feel?" he inquired. 

"Slightly angelic," Crowley answered, dreamily. "How about you?"  
"Somewhat demonic."

"Mm. I love it when you sin."  
Aziraphale laughed. "I blame you and your depraved deceptions leading me astray."

"Blame me all you want."

When they returned to the roof, the big clock at the nearby station showed 17:16. It was very dark already. They had descended the final ten thousand feet or so in the middle of the blizzard. Aziraphale landed on his roof, very carefully. His feet sank in the speckled snow.

"I think it's best to retire early tonight."  
"My thoughts exactly."  
Aziraphale gently set him back on his feet once they were inside. They smiled at each other in the dark hallway; eyes glowing, but both mentally exhausted.

"Azzie, do you have any liquor in the house?"  
"I might have an old nightcap stocked in the drinks cabinet, yes."  
"Good. Cause we should celebrate."

Downstairs, in Aziraphale's living room, Crowley lit some kind of cigarette with a snap of his fingers, leaning out of a window, while Aziraphale rummaged through his drink collection.   
"That is not tobacco, is it?"  
"No. It's a type of dried herb from Honduras. Alters the mind. Makes it more receptive. That's what they told me. I didn't believe it then and I don't believe it now. But it's a good smoke after... you know. _Merging._ With a friend."  
"Sounds interesting."  
"Baby, if you want to try it, just ask."  
"I would like to."  
"Alright, then I will make you one."

"Do you reckon it goes well with this?" He turned the bottle around to show Crowley the label. “I think it’s Welsh and means… ‘owl’, or something.”

Crowley's face twisted into his most demonic smile. "Oh, yes. That one would be perfect."

They turned Aziraphale's room into a smoky gentlemen's club, like the ones he used to frequent one hundred and fifty years ago. He had certainly never thought that he would end up with the demon sitting next to him one day, but he had a suspicion that anyone who would have seen them together, even many, many years ago, would understand in an instant that that was exactly what was going to happen, even if neither of them were aware of it yet, themselves. Now that it had come to pass, he realised how obvious and simple it had been, and still was. 

That night, they didn't say much. They didn't need to. Their essences flowed together easily and without anything to hold them back. It was comforting. Like stepping into a warm bath or hiding in soft, freshly laundered blankets. They smoked their Honduran herbs and sipped their one hundred and eight-year old whisky in silence. When their glasses were empty Aziraphale got up and took Crowley's hand, leading him to his bed. The freak blizzard finally stopped just before eleven PM. They were long asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantasy whisky they drink is one of the final whiskies ever distilled in Wales, before production of liquor was stopped there. I believe this was done because there was not enough demand to stay in business.  
It is called "Tylluan wen" and in English, it means "barn owl". Year: 1899.
> 
> I recognise Aziraphale does not sleep. He does in this chapter. I'm going to dodge longtime fans' scorn (maybe) by guessing that the day's events left him more exhausted than usual.


	6. Aziraphale's kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after a world-changing cosmic event, wouldn't you like to wake up to a demonic breakfast, prepared just for you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG WITH MY FINAL CHAPTER. Good lord.  
At my tumblr, I have included chapter headers for every chapter I uploaded here, and this one happened to take a long time to materialise. Not that it was particularly time-consuming, not at all. I had an inspirational hurdle to jump. Or, maybe (and I think this is likely) I was not ready to say goodbye to this project.  
Thank you all for still being here!!

_Scrambled eggs, fried with hellfire  
Seasoned with pepper and salt  
A large cup of fresh coffee  
Toast with butter, jam, and honey  
A good cup of tea afterwards_

Friday, December 14, 2007

  
With only a week left to go before winter solstice, the dawn was late that morning.  
Timothy Merton ran outside to the back yard immediately after he had opened his curtains. He would meet his classmates soon, and they would probably have a legendary snowball fight during lunch break, but he wanted to enjoy the snow for himself before it got to that. He knew from experience how quickly snow could melt and leave everything you had built in total shambles. He needed to play and he needed to play now.  
It wasn’t until he jumped in the snow to make a snow angel that he remembered what he had seen last night. Laying on his back, he looked at the grey clouds in the sky and thought of his aunt. And his grandma.  
“Timothy,” he heard his father’s voice as he walked into the yard. “You’re up early today.”  
“I saw the snow,” Timothy explained himself.  
His father nodded in complete understanding. “You’ll have to get ready for school in fifteen minutes or so. But I’ll call you, so don’t worry, you can play a bit.”  
“You are up early, too.”  
“I am.”  
Timothy was scared of asking, but he did it, anyway. “How is aunt Jade?”  
“That is why I was up so early. Things went well at the hospital. I couldn’t sleep, so I called them an hour ago.”  
Timothy noticed the relief on his father’s face. Just seeing his expression gave him so much comfort; it was as if he had just gotten home and had dropped his heavy schoolbag in the hallway after a long day at school. He wanted to ask more, but he didn’t feel up to it. He got up from his snow angel and looked at the result.  
“That’s a nice angel you made.”  
“Nah. The wings aren’t right.”  
“What do they look like, then?” his dad asked, a small smile on his face, clearly not realising that Timothy had just run his mouth in a spectacular way.  
“Oh, um, I dunno. More like bird’s wings, I guess.”  
“Hm. I could picture that. Are you making a snowman, next?”  
“Yeah, if I have time?”  
“We have some time. Let’s go.”

Timothy watched his dad as he got up to get his gloves and scarf. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Hey, dad,” he said. “I’ll write aunt Jade a card.”  
“Good plan, Tim.”  
Timothy smiled and started gathering the snow. Now that he looked at it closely, he saw that there were small grey spots in it.

  
Combined with the thick clouds, it was so dark outside that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley opened their eyes before ten 'o clock. 

It was very unusual, but Crowley awoke before the angel did. While Aziraphale's daily routine started around half past seven, his could vary anywhere between eleven thirty and after the sunset. Today was different. Maybe it was the cooing pigeons who had woken him up, or maybe just the sweet peach and honey scent the angel was emanating.

Memory is often tied strongly to smell and Crowley's demon senses were not so different from those of everyday people. So when he woke up with Aziraphale right next to him, for a moment, he thought he was back in Eden. It took him a few minutes before his memories returned to him and he understood why he felt so euphoric. He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw were Aziraphale's curls, white as snow. Bright, even in the twilight. 

He thought, _he really did that to me. _His mind seemed nothing but a collection of close-ups and moving pictures of Aziraphale. He reached out to him and laid his hand to his back, slowly tracing his spine up and down, and up again. It was strange to know that he had walked inside the angel's mind. Had seen it all. And that he had let him inside of his thoughts, too; finalising what they had started a decade earlier. It had been a glimpse back then, a snapshot. He hadn't known to what extent he would be giving himself away. The Crowley from 1997 had fancied Aziraphale, sure, and he had liked him for centuries. But it had been nothing compared to what they were now. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and pressed his forehead to his back. He felt drunk. High. Intoxicated by something very strong.

"Good morning," Aziraphale's sleepy voice said.

"Good morning, angel."

Aziraphale stretched his arms and legs and curved his back against Crowley. He had left the heater switched off last night and the demon's skin was deliciously warm.

"Oh, I could stay like this for hours," he swooned.

"You can, if you want to."

"I shouldn't, it isn't appropriate. Laziness is the most common gateway to a life of vice." Aziraphale turned around, snuggling to Crowley's chest. "One day you stay in bed until the afternoon. The next, you have been lured into some kind of infernal blood pact with a prince of darkness."  
"It's no use feeling guilty about it."  
"It never is."  
The demon was very amused by that reaction. "Sounds like your corruption is complete." He smiled to himself. "You really are something."  
"I love you."  
"I love you, too."

No matter Aziraphale's intentions, he could not get out of bed. Well, of course he could, but he just did not. Instead of dozing off again, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall further into Crowley. Combining their mind connection with the physical connection was absolute bliss to him and he would have forgotten to get up at all, if it wasn't for Crowley's voice taking him back to reality.

"Azzie?"  
"Hm?"  
"Are you up for breakfast?"

"Now that you've brought it up..."  
"Alright. Stay where you are."  
Aziraphale blinked at him. "You're making me breakfast?"  
Crowley hopped out of bed and went through Aziraphale's wardrobe. "Yes. Hey, can I borrow this?" He held up a very expensive bathrobe; incidentally, the darkest item of clothing Aziraphale owned. Its colour could be described as something between bordeaux and maroon. His other robes were white, or beige. Or pink.

"Of course."  
Crowley threw it on. "Tell me, how gorgeous am I?"  
The colour clashed violently with the shade of his fiery hair.   
"Immensely," Aziraphale admitted, mostly admiring the fact that the robe was so loose and open that he could see everything from his collarbones down to the subtle line of red hair on his lower stomach.  
"I'll call you when I'm ready for you," Crowley merrily announced and disappeared down the stairs. Only barely grasping how lucky he was, Aziraphale sighed deeply and rolled onto his back. He spent a minute or two in quiet delight. He then realised that Crowley would have no clue where everything was located in his kitchen. Or his cupboards. And that he didn't have much food in the fridge. And how long had it been since Crowley had last lit a stove? Feeling a twinge of panic, he rushed out of bed. He heard the front door slam shut before he had had the chance to get downstairs. 

A loud noise told him that today's papers were thrown on his doormat. He picked them up and took a seat at his dining table. He still could not focus, but he liked to think it was at least not as bad as the day before.

The morning editions were all reporting on the weather conditions.   
_"Country spooked by surprise blizzard"_

_"Meteorologists: 'Still no plausible explanation' for layer of snow mixed with ash"_

_"WHITE CHRISTMAS COMES TOO SOON - and what's with the ash?"_

"We made a mess," he mumbled to himself as he read the headlines. He turned the front pages to find pictures from all over the country. 

_"M5 closed and flights cancelled due to extreme weather - thousands stranded"  
"Material damages running into millions"  
"Schools forced to close doors on Friday"_

"Golly, what a mess..." The best he could hope for was that these unexpected events would lead to solidarity. Having your plans thrown in disarray because of the weather was never fun, but it could bring about good things, too. At the very least, the children would love a day off to play in the snow. Oh, and it would be nice if Heaven wouldn't find out. Was it idle of him to hope such a thing? Probably. He decided to carry Crowley's charm with him, in any case. 

"Hey!" Crowley barged in through the front door. "I thought I told you to stay put until I was ready?"  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Aziraphale started. "Should I go back upstairs?"

"No, no, it's fine." Crowley carried a bag full of groceries inside. He was still wearing nothing but Aziraphale's bathrobe. 

"Did you go to Tesco wearing that?"  
"And what of it? It's just around the corner."  
"You are barefoot and I can see your... not your navel."

"It's nice to give people something to look at, isn't it?" With an elegant turn, Crowley moved to the kitchen. All kinds of clattering noises started to come from there, but Aziraphale stayed pinned to his chair, not wanting to spoil his own surprise. He could only hope that the demon fiend wouldn't wreck his appliances. 

"Azzie!" Crowley screeched. "Where in the world do you keep your spatula?"  
"It's hanging on the wall, right in front of you, I presume," Aziraphale answered helpfully. 

"Ah. Nevermind."

He didn't ask for any additional assistance after that. In fact, Crowley was very skilled at making breakfasts and had been for many years. It's only natural when groups of mortal souls start following you around, sleeping over, building a commune around you. He didn't need to eat, but they did. And cooking is dangerous when under hypnosis. So, Crowley had taken responsibility for some of their daily meals. It also gave him some time away from his adoring fans. Even if it was just half an hour per day, it was nice to be alone for a while.

He wasn't leading a cult at the moment, though. He had often wondered if maybe, he was just getting too old for it. Of course, he still loved being revered and worshiped. The thrill it gave him was still a weakness of his, but he didn't go out of his way to look for it anymore. The recruiting alone was so time-consuming he grew tired just thinking about it. The flyers, the speeches, the scripture... And did he need anyone else's attention, now that he had an angel who worshiped him?

"I don't think so," he sang to himself while he lit the stove with a flick of his fingers to scramble the eggs. "I don't think so..."

"I didn't know where all of your things were so this is as good as it's gonna get." Crowley swooped back from the kitchen, carrying multiple plates and cups, and a very hot frying pan in his bare hands.

"I will make some room for you," Aziraphale said and hurried to get all of the newspapers out of the way. 

"There you go, babe. Enjoy." Crowley sat down across from him with a smirk on his face. If he had been any other demon, that smirk would have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong with the food. But the love he spread through the room was so obvious that anyone would have been able to sense it, not just angels. 

"This smells amazing."  
"I hope you're hungry. I hope you're _starving_."  
"I could definitely eat."  
"And I could sit here and watch you."  
Aziraphale cast him a glance. "It's not going to stop me."  
"Believe me, I know." His eyes were glowing as Aziraphale looked at each item on his plate. The eggs were warm and had just the right amount of pepper and salt on them. There were some slices of tomato, and some baked mushrooms. The golden brown toast was crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. Crowley had bought some good jams and honey, as well; not the regular ones, but top shelf stuff. 

As was his routine, he started with the coffee. It was dark, rich and intense. 

"This is perfect." He looked up to his sweetheart, who was quietly staring at him like a hungry snake watching a mouse. "Thank you."  
"Don't mention it."  
Aziraphale tasted the eggs and nibbled on the toast. He licked the honey off his fingers while Crowley watched him. If this was what he liked, Aziraphale would gladly give him what he wanted. He sure knew how to make him happy; it really was very good. Breakfast places had nothing on this. Love might be blind, but it didn't impair any taste buds.

"You know, I could start every day like this," said Aziraphale.

"Be my guest," said Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this culinary trip through the centuries! I thought it fitting to close on a good old full English. It may be prepared in modern households, but its taste is probably fairly ancient. I do not think eggs are fried in the flames of hell very often, though, not even on the mainland.
> 
> It's funny, by the way. There really is only a week to go before winter solstice.
> 
> Mini confession I will leave you all with <3  
Ever since Good Omens I have made it a habit to stare at my friends while they eat snacks they enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> The Heian court was located in (what is now) Kyoto. In the mountains around Kyoto there are still summer fires being lit today. I am not sure how far back this tradition goes. It might be older than a thousand years.  
Writing this I realised that this is why the 'fire' attack in Pokémon is shaped like 大. I feel like an idiot because I should have known this but I only connected the dots now!


End file.
